THE   DREAM   GIRL 


./Illy  daraen.  ismuck  more  a  aream ^X 

/          v'    /I    iO  / 

X        U  mJart  J  anu ,  J  assure 


The  Dream  Girl 

by 

Ethel  Gertrude  Hart 


<3 


Illustrated 


Gordon  Grant 


Garden  City  New\oik 
DOUBLEDAY,PAGE  ff  COMPANY 


Copyright,  191 3,  &? 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


MOTIF 

I  lived  with  visions  for  my  company 

Instead  of  men  and  women,  years  ago, 

And  found  them  gentle  mates,  nor  thought  to 

know 

A  sweeter  music  than  they  played  to  me. 
But  soon  their  trailing  purple  was  not  free 
Of  this  world's  dust, —  their  lutes  did  silent 

grow, 

And  I  myself  grew  faint  and  blind  below 
Their    vanishing    eyes.    Then    Thou    did'st 

come  to  be 
Beloved,  what  they  seemed.    Their  shining 

fronts, 
Their  songs,  their  splendours     .    .    .    (better, 

yet  the  same     .     .     . 

As  river-water  hallowed  into  fonts     .     .     .) 
Met  in  Thee,  and  from  out  Thee  overcame 
My  soul  with  satisfaction  of  all  wants    .     .     . 
Because  God's  gifts  put  man's  best  dreams  to 

shame! 

— MRS.  BROWNING. 


2130052 


TO 

THE  MAN  OF  LAW 

AND 
ANOTHER 


FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not  he. 
He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament: 
But,  as  the  water  lily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 
Though  anchored  to  the  bottom,  such  as  he. 

— TENNYSON. 

She  that  could  think,  and  ne'er  disclose  her 
mind. 

—Othello,  Act  II.,  Scene  I. 


FAIR  UNKNOWN: 

Polly  says  that  above  all  things  I 
am  histrionic;  and  that  that  just  sums 
up  the  whole  situation.  And  she  ought 
to  know.  But  at  least  it  was  at  her  sug- 
gestion that  this  correspondence  was 
dreamed  into  being.  And  you  con- 
sented. Always  remember  that  .  .  . 
you  consented. 

It  seems  a  bit  odd,  doesn't  it?    Two 

people  who  know  nothing  of  each  other 

save  through  a  slip  of  a  girl  —  who  are 

never  to  meet  —  how  decided  both  you 

3 


THE   DREAM    GIRL 


and  she  are  on  this  point  —  and  yet  a 
friendship  on  paper  is  hazily  approach- 
ing us,  and  I  am  sending  out  the  first 
thought  waves.  How  do  you  feel  about 
it? 

I  am  wondering  very  much  whether 
you  regard  it,  and  me,  as  a  mission! 
Polly  is  inscrutable  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

"Why  dig  for  motives?"  she  suggests. 
"A  man  with  an  imagination  like  yours 
should  never  be  at  a  loss." 

I  leave  you  to  guess  at  the  scornful 
inflection  with  which  these  words  were 
uttered.  What  a  practical  little  soul  it 
is,  this  Polly  of  ours. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  when 

she  told  me  about  you,  Lady-of-the- 

Mountains-and-the-Mists    .     .     .    one 

tumbled  wave  of  hair  shadowing  that 

4 


THE   DREAM   GIRL 


clever  forehead  of  hers,  and  her  eyes 
divided  between  blazing  indignation  at 
me  and  cool  contempt  of  me. 

The  room  was  firelit,  and  the  coal  was 
sending  leaping  tongues  of  flame  to 
dance  reflections  in  the  tiles.  Outside, 
the  fog  was  creeping  steadily  up  from 
the  river  flats. 

And  I  —  was  grumbling! 

No,  I  don't  do  it  often;  only  with  con- 
viction. And  honestly,  I  think  I  have 
cause.  But  here,  that  small  friend  of 
mine  and  I  part  company. 

"You  might,"  she  asserts  carelessly, 
"have  been  killed."  And  considers 
this  fact  a  crushing  one. 

"Pity  I  wasn't,"  I  growl.     "At  least 
you  would  have  had  the  mournful  grati- 
fication of  feeling  that  I  had  come  by 
my  death  in  a  fitting  manner." 
5 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Her  eyes  flicker. 

"Yes,"  she  says.  "I  ought  to  have 
thought  of  that.  It  really  would  have 
been  most  pathetic,  and  romantic. 
'Gallant  rescue  of  a  child  in  which  the 
hero  loses  his  life.'  .  .  .  Can't  you 
see  it  —  done  in  headlines,  Max,  and  a 
special  article  all  to  itself?  Even  I 
should  have  come  in  for  some  of  the 
glory.  ...  I,  who  have  the  inesti- 
mable distinction  of  typing  your  stories 
for  you.  And  you  —  though  tardily 
—  would  have  been  famous!" 

And  that  is  all  it  would  have  meant 
to  Polly.  .  .  . 

So  now  you  are  beginning  to  know 
what  manner  of  man  Max  Herrick  is  — 
very  much  at  your  service.  A  dreamer 
of  dreams  —  a  writer  of  stories  which 
have  never  made  any  stir  in  the  world; 
6 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


and,  at  the  present  time,  six-foot-one 
of  helpless  manhood. 
Polly  looked  up  just  then  from  her 


cushion  by  the  fire,  and  her  eyes  were 
amused. 

7 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"You  are  getting  sorry  for  yourself 
already,"  she  said,  demurely. 

"Have  you  come  to  the  part  about 
the  fire  yet?  Send  her  the  newspaper 
clipping  —  it  will  preserve  your  mod- 
esty, and  tell  her  all  that  you  want  her 
to  know." 

Yet  this  is  the  girl  whose  white  face 
was  the  first  I  saw  when  I  came  back  to 
life,  to  find  I  had  lost  quite  a  piece  out 
of  it  —  after  the  rush  through  an  in- 
ferno of  smoke  and  heat,  and  a  fall  that 
seemed  to  last  for  years. 

But  perhaps  I  was  dreaming  then,  or 
still  semi-conscious.  For  I  fancied  I 
heard  a  quick  catch  of  the  breath  and  a 
gasping  "Thank  God!"  Polly  cer- 
tainly would  not  thank  God  because  I 
had  taken  hold  of  things  again. 

I  hope  I  shall  not  bore  you  by  writing 
8 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


so  much  of  her?  You  see  she  has  some- 
how grown  into  my  life  since  the  day, 
two  years  ago,  when  I  lit  upon  Mrs. 
Collop's  select  establishment,  and  found 
in  one  of  my  fellow  boarders  a  girl  who 
could  not  only  type  my  stories,  but 
criticise  them  pretty  caustically. 

I  suppose  it  is  friendship  —  this  com- 
radeship of  ours.  Certainly  for  me, 
life  would  lose  much  of  its  sauce  pi- 
quante  if  Polly  slipped  out  of  it.  And, 
from  her  side,  it  must  be  diverting 
to  have  some  one  to  lecture  and  quarrel 
with. 

She  tells  me  that  she  has  explained 
the  situation  to  you  —  explained  me. 
And  I  can  imagine  it  is  on  this  wise,  and 
that  Max  Herrick  as  edited  by  Polly 
Carrol  is  a  man  who,  being  blessed 
with  far  more  money  than  is  good  for 
9 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


him,  has  played  with  his  life,  and  taken 
nothing  seriously. 

Well    ...    I  wonder! 

Only  last  night  I  had  a  sermon  all  to 
myself  on  the  subject  that  seems  a  tire- 
less one. 

"It  isn't  as  if  you  were  editing  a 
paper,"  she  said  musingly. 

"There  would  be  some  excuse  then  for 
your  regarding  everything  and  every- 
body as  copy.  You  are  even"  —  with 
a  flash  of  those  wonderful  eyes  of  hers 
—  "  studying  me  now  with  a  view  to 
reproduction.  And  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  typing  my  own  utterances 
later  on.  Is  anything  real  to  you?" 

"Mrs.  Collop's  excellent  beefsteak 
pudding,  for  example,"  I  suggested 
lazily.  She  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. 

10 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"You  would  write  about  anything," 
she  said  hotly. 

"This  —  because  I  gave  you  a  crop 
of  freckles  in  my  last  yarn,"  I  said 
temperately.  "That  seems  to  have 
rankled." 

"  Me?  "  she  said  with  a  little,  shadowy 
smile  playing  round  her  lips.  "I  like 
that.  You  know  so  much  about  me, 
don't  you?" 

"Is  there  more  than  one  Polly 
Carrol?" 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said  icily.  "I  am 
quite  on  the  surface  of  things." 

"Just  so  — who  ever  supposed  other- 
wise? Still,  an  interesting  study." 

And  then  I  was  treated  to  an  indig- 
nant rush  of  colour. 

But  turn  about  is  only  fair,  isn't  it, 
Dream  Girl?  There  now,  I  have  found 
ii 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


a  name  for  you,  and  it  suits  you  rarely. 
So  much  for  a  prophecy.  For  you  live 
among  the  mountains,  and  you  have 
grown  to  look  like  them.  And.  above 
all,  I  catch  a  hint  of  exquisite  compas- 
sion in  your  eyes. 

How  do  I  know?  Well,  you  see  I 
write  —  that  tells  its  own  tale.  And  a 
woman  who  is  willing  to  receive  and 
answer  letters  from  a  sick  man  she  has 
never  seen,  must  have  —  just  the  touch 
that  Polly  lacks. 

And  here,  compunction  seizes  me. 
For  she  has  been  rarely  good,  this  com- 
rade of  mine;  and  my  day  begins  when 
she  puts  the  cover  of  her  typewriter  on, 
and  slips  in  to  my  room  to  make  it 
home.  My  prison  would  be  dreary 
enough  without  her. 

And  though  indolence  is  supposed  to 
12 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


be  my  prevailing  characteristic,  I  don't 
think  it  is.  I  like  to  be  in  things. 

I  suppose  she  told  you  how  I  came  to 
be  Max  Herrick,  horizontal,  not  ver- 
tical .  .  .  ? 

A  fire  in  a  small  up-country  hotel,  and 
a  kiddie  in  danger,  and  a  ladder  that 
gave  way.  You  can  fill  in  the  gaps, 
can't  you?  I  was  pretty  ill  for  a  while 
with  burns,  and  the  shock  to  the  nerves. 
A  man  ought  to  rise  above  such  things, 
oughtn't  he?  At  first  there  were  forty- 
eight  hours  to  each  day  at  least,  com- 
ma'd,  and  dashed  (very  much  dashed), 
and  full-stopped  by  dressings  of  burns; 
and  paragraphed  by  liquid  atrocities 
that  represented  my  special  diet.  A 
NURSE  —  capital  letters  all  the  way 
through,  please  -  -  the  ruler  of  my 
destiny.  She  continues,  though  I 
14 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


am  promoted  to  lounge  suit  and  full 
diet. 

Do  you  wonder  that  I  am  sorry  for 
myself  —  on  paper? 

She  is  out  for  her  walk  now,  and  I  be- 
lieve she  measures  her  steps.  Her  very 
smile  is  professional,  and  never  reaches 
her  eyes.  And  I  grumble,  and  obey, 
and  am,  like  Ellen  Thorney croft's  novel 
-"In  Subjection." 

Do  you  read  Ellen,  I  wonder?  And 
do  you  wish  that  in  this  particular 
child  of  her  brain  there  was  more 
Fowler  and  less  Felkin?  I  do.  If 
women  novelists  will  get  married, 
why  write  in  conjunction  with  their 
husbands? 

I  asked  Polly  this  a  while  ago,  and 
her  mouth  twisted. 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  said, 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


sarcastically.  "I  don't  write  novels, 
and  I'm  not  married." 

As  if  that  settled  the  question!  And 
if  you  could  have  heard  the  scorn  she 
infused  into  "I  don't  write  novels,"  you 
would  have  been  sorry  for  me. 

It  can't  be  good  for  me  to  feel  so  con- 
stantly subdued,  now  can  it?  Dream 
Girl,  there  are  mists  about  your  moun- 
tain home  —  see  me  through  these. 
Don't  be  too  practical. 

It  was  a  strange  experience  to  come 
back  to  things  normal  after  those  weeks 
of  shadows.  To  be  no  longer  puzzled 
by  faces  that  seemed  to  spring  suddenly 
at  me  through  vapour,  and,  as  suddenly, 
vanish.  To  face  a  dado  that  had  ceased 
to  be  a  mass  of  crawling  reptiles,  and  re- 
solved itself  into  regular  lines  and  curves 
that  kept  still.  To  find  the  fire  an 
16 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


old  friend  —  not  a  continuation  of  the 
horror! 

When  Mrs.  Collop  lumbered  in,  and 
shed  tears  two  shades  paler  than  ordi- 
nary ones,  to  match  her  eyes;  and  ven- 
tured to  suggest,  between  heavy  sniffs, 
a  grilled  steak  of  the  delectable  quality 
known  as  undercut  —  I  felt  as  if  I  really 
had  left  Mist  Valley,  and  was  back  in 
the  world  that  somehow  has  generally 
turned  its  sunny  side  to  me. 

But  when  I  realized  that  an  indefinite 
time  must  elapse  before  I  could  put  my 
foot  to  the  ground  —  six  months  at  the 
very  least  in  the  hands  of  the  Woman- 
in- White  —  no  apologies  to  Wilkie  Col- 
lins —  the  title  suits  Nurse  better  than 
it  did  that  ill-starred  heroine  of  his — 
my  language  grew  lurid.  And  Polly 
was  in  as  usual. 

17 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"Months,"  I  said;  for  I  thought  she 
wasn't  sufficiently  impressed.  She 
laughed  rather  shortly. 

"Yes,  isn't  it  awful?"  she  said.  "I 
don't  wonder  you  feel  bad  about  it. 
Every  luxury  you  can  think  of,  no  duty 
to  whisper  reproaches  while  you  take 
your  ease  —  doctors  who  are  far  too 
good  to  you,  and  friends  who  make  you 
their  first  thought.  It  really  could  not 
have  been  worse  —  unless  you  had  been 
disfigured!" 

But  her  face  softened  quite  suddenly. 

"  Is  your  foot  feeling  very  bad,  Max?  " 
she  asked.  And  it  was  —  quite  bad, 
you  know;  and  sympathy  from  her  is 
rare.  I  seized  it  eagerly. 

Would  it  strike  you  that  I  was  a  pessi- 
mistic sort  of  chap?    Don't  be  afraid 
to  tell  me  —  I  am  used  to  abuse. 
18 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


She  has  said  just  enough  about  you  to 
make  me  wonder  much.  That  you  are 
old  in  experience  —  but  romantic. 

"Tell  her  all  that  is  in  your  heart," 
she  suggests  saucily. 

Suppose  I  should  do  just  that,  Dream 
Girl !  Would  it  bore  you?  For  you  are 
a  girl,  you  know  —  and  a  very  kind 
one. 

This  has  taken  a  week  to  write,  and 
has  been  done  in  easy  stages. 

It  is  nine  o'clock  —  Nurse  is  climbing 
the  stairs 

And  if  my  temperature  has  gone 
up  ... 

Fancy  a  man  being  governed  by  his 
temperature ! 

Dejectedly  yours, 

MAX  HEKRICK. 


n 

FROM  THE   DREAM   GIRL 


Memory's  the  streamlet  of  the  scene, 
Which  sweeps  the  hills  of  life  between; 

•  •••••• 

Upon  its  shores  we  rest 

And  love  to  view  the  waters  fair, 

And  see  lost  joys  depicted  there. 

— MRS.  BROWNING. 


21 


DEAR  Six-Foox-ONE  OF  GRIEVANCES: 
Why  dejectedly?  Your  letter  did 
not  read  that  way  at  all.  I  should 
not  call  you  a  pessimist  —  perhaps  just 
a  little  bit  of  an  egotist.  You  are  cer- 
tainly fond  of  introspection.  But  that 
may  belong  to  the  gift  Polly  makes  so 
much  fun  of  to  you.  I  say  to  you, 
advisedly,  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you 
how  she  speaks  of  it  to  me.  You  have 
quite  as  good  an  opinion  of  yourself  as 
you  ought  to  have,  Max  Herrick  - 
horizontal. 

Why  am  I  willing  to  write  to  you? 
That  requires  consideration.  No,  I 
don't  think  I  am  approaching  it  in  the 
light  of  a  mission  at  all.  As  edited  by 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Polly  Carrol,  you  present  possibilities. 
Poor  Six-foot-one  of  helpless  manhood 
-  you  didn't  want  me  to  know  you 
were  tall,  did  you?  You  really  are  to  be 
pitied,  even  though  your  durance  vile  is 
is  to  be  terminated  at  the  other  side  of 
some  months. 

And  Polly  is  right  —  it  might  have 
been  a  great  deal  worse.  If  it  had  been 
your  spine,  now!  And,  any  way,  you 
are  not  taking  the  real  rest  cure.  That 
is  a  pretty  drastic  affair.  All  communi- 
cation with  the  outer  world  cut  off,  no 
books,  no  papers,  no  letters.  How 
would  you  have  liked  that?  Your  doc- 
tors, and  even  the  Woman-in- White, 
must  be  letting  you  down  as  gently  as 
they  possibly  can. 

So  Polly  tells  you  that  she  has  ex- 
plained you  to  me?  Well,  I  suppose  she 
24 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


has.  She  has  certainly  put  at  my  dis- 
posal detached  bits  of  you  that  seem 
curiously  contradictory  and  jumbled  up, 
and  rather  like  those  puzzle  pictures  we 
used  to  amuse  ourselves  with  as  children. 

I  shall  judge  for  myself,  and  whether 
my  judgment  —  from  this  distance  — 
will  be  a  more  correct  one  than  hers,  so 
near  you,  you  must  determine,  you 
Writer  of  Stories. 

In  the  meantime,  I  want  the  atmos- 
phere of  this  place  to  get  into  your  room, 
to  draw  you  out  of  it  at  times. 

This  home  of  mine  is  rather  like  a 
Swiss  Chalet  with  the  mountains  behind 
it,  and  a  road  that  winds  its  way  through 
wild,  bush  country.  We  call  it  a  road, 
but  it  is  little  more  than  a  track,  and  a 
very  rough  one  at  that,  down  which  the 
coach  comes  once  a  week,  bringing  our 
25 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


mail.  In  the  season  the  wheels  crush 
dozens  of  wild  flowers  that  stain  the  soil 
with  purple,  and  pink,  and  yellow,  and 
white,  and  every  shade  you  can  think  of. 
Coachie  is  a  celebrated  character. 
He  knows  every  settler's  home  for  miles 


comtr  dttce  a  veeh. 


"bnoana  our  mail 


round,  and  almost  every  history  con- 
nected with  the  occupants.  He  will 
eye  your  writing,  my  friend,  and  wonder 
—  he  takes  a  keen  interest  in  my  cor- 
26 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


respondence.  Last  week  he  was  polite, 
next  time  his  look  will  be  a  question 
that  some  day  his.  lips  will  utter.  Are 
you  to  be  a  relation  —  for  six  months? 

We  live  very  near  to  the  heart  of 
things  in  this  part  of  the  world.  So 
little  happens  that  much  is  made  of  the 
slightest  deviation  from  the  ordinary 
rut. 

I  wonder  if  any  one  loves  Stony  Creek 
as  I  do? 

In  my  garden  —  I  am  sure  "Eliza- 
beth's German  Garden"  was  no  lovelier 
—  there  is  a  riot  of  colour  that  would 
fairly  intoxicate  you.  It  is  far  more  a 
dream  than  I  am,  I  can  assure  you. 
Think  of  pictures  of  Japanese  Fairy- 
land —  perhaps  you  have  even  been  to 
the  Flowery  Land?  Well,  I  haven't 
cherry  blossom  to  carry  you  there,  but 
27 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


—  for  the  rest!  The  soil  is  a  rich  dark 
loam,  sandy  and  moist,  for  there  are 
springs  bubbling  up  in  all  directions. 
And  a  creek  with  rustic  bridges  runs 


,e  is  a  celfDraiEQ. — » 
cWacfer 

through  it,  twists  and  turns  and  wan- 
ders —  a  creek  with  boulders,  and  ferns 
—  stodgy  cabbage  ones,  startlingly 
green  against  the  dark  background  of 
28 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


rock  —  and  delicate,  spreading  fronds 
of  maiden  hair. 

And  I  have  planted  Iris  on  the  banks 
in  patches,  and,  in  one  clear,  sunny  pool 
-  Water  Lilies. 

Then  the  May,  and  the  Jackarandah 
—  and  the  Virginia  Creeper  that  sets 
the  Chalet  in  living  gold  and  fire  in  the 
fall  o'  the  year!  Picture  it  with  the 
mountain  behind,  purple  with  shadows, 
and  rosy- violet,  and  silvery-mauve  when 
the  mists  creep  down  the  slopes  and  stay 
a  while.  And  then  talk  to  me  of  town 
life  —  you  daren't! 

Could  any  orchestral  music  be  sweeter 
than  that  I  listen  to  when  the  birds  look 
at  me  with  their  bright,  shy  eyes,  and 
sing  —  and  sing? 

There  is  even  a  dispute  occasionally 
between  first  and  second  violin  —  till 
29 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


the  rest  join  in  and  drown  the  quarrel- 
ling in  a  burst  of  melody  that  swells  and 
dies  away  —  and  in  the  distance  an 
echo  trembles. 

Some  of  them  fairly  chatter  to  me, 
and  in  the  winter,  fat  robins  feed  out  of 
my  hand  —  strut  and  eye  me  while  the 
crumbs  are  thrown  out.  Don't  tell  me 
they  are  not  the  same  birds  every  year 
—  I  know  better! 

I  think  it  is  such  a  pity  that  you  have 
a  dado  in  your  room  that  is  capable  of 
springing  to  life  when  you  are  sicker 
than  usual.  Don't  you  sigh  for  self- 
colour?  I  should. 

I  quite  agree  with  you  that  Miss 
Fowler  was  much  nicer  than  Mrs. 
Felkin.  I  suppose  she  would  be  indig- 
nant at  the  idea.  Perhaps  she  is  too 
happy  to  write  well  —  what  do  you  say? 
30 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Love  doesn't  put  one  "In  Subjection," 
that  is,  it  need  not.  Two  fronting  the 
world,  fronting  everything  —  together. 
All  that  means. 

I  am  still  smiling  over  the  look  of 
exquisite  compassion  with  which  you 
have  credited  me.  That  will  be  rather 
hard  to  live  up  to.  And  yet,  I  realize 
that  it  may  be  more  possible  than  if  I 
were  as  near  to  you  as  Polly  is.  At  least 
I  —  and  you  —  will  have  perspective. 

I  saw  that  newspaper  cutting.  It 
was  a  big  thing  to  do  —  a  bigger  would 
be  to  turn  your  prison  into  something 
else.  Don't  you  agree?  Perhaps  you 
do  this  —  in  spite  of  the  grumbling  I 
could  almost  imagine  that  you  do.  A 
strong  nature  will  rise  above  environ- 
ment —  or  bend  it  to  suit  its  purpose. 
And  even  nurses  have  their  points. 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Your  mental  picture  of  me  would  be 
interesting  and  enlightening.  From 
what  Polly  has  told  you,  you  think  I 
have  rather  an  American  style  —  I 


know.     .     .     .     Silvery  hair,  and  young 
eyes.    A  maiden  lady  of  uncertain  age, 
but  romantic  tendencies. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know? 

32 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


This  much:  My  life  is  not  in  any 
sense  of  the  word  a  dream  one.  It  has 
to  be  lived  faithfully  and  sturdily.  Will 
you  be  very  much  shocked  if  I  tell  you 
that  I  am  one  of  the  world's  workers, 
and  that  my  orchard,  and  my  poultry 
farm,  and  my  bees  support  one  of  the 
dearest  little  Dresden  China  grand- 
mothers that  ever  came  straight  out  of 
a  fairy  tale,  and  myself? 

Sorry,  but  the  truth  will  out. 

I  have  been  typing  this  on  a  discarded 
machine  of  Polly's,  on  the  balcony  in  a 
blaze  of  sunshine.  Presently  I  must  say 
good-bye  to  the  mountains  and  the 
amethyst  shadows  and  you,  and  prepare 
dinner.  I  shall  bring  to  the  meal  a  sub- 
stantial and  undrearnlike  appetite. 

You  must  enter  into  detail  next  time. 
Tell  me  about  your  doctors,  and  the 
33 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


NURSE  —  even    Polly  —  as    you    see 
her. 
Something  is  burning  in  the  oven.   Till 

the  next 

THE  DREAM  GIRL. 

You  hesitated  between  that  and 
Dream  Lady.  Do  you  really  think  it 
possible  I  may  be  young  —  to  match 
the  eyes? 

I  don't  need  to  tell  you  not  to  grow 
bitter.  A  man  who  talks  about  being 
governed  by  his  temperature  has  the 

saving  sense  of  humour. 

D.  G. 


34 


Ill 

FROM   MAX   HERRICK 


.    .    .    .    For  the  mind  recoils 
Upon  itself,  and  the  wrecked  heart  lies  cold, 
While  heaviness  collects  the  shattered  spoils. 
It  is  not  in  the  storm,  nor  in  the  strife 
We  feel  benumb'd,  and  wish  to  be  no  more  — 
But  in  the  after-silence  on  the  shore, 
When  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life. 

— BYRON. 

.     .     .     .     How  my  life  is  all  read  back- 
ward, and  the  charm  of  life  withdrawn. 
— MRS.  BROWNING. 


35 


You  — GIRL! 

Of  course  you  are  young  —  to 
match  the  eyes.  Silvery  hair,  indeed? 
I  never  imagined  anything  of  the  kind. 
But  I  do  know  your  eyes  —  they  have 
caught  and  held  the  purple  shadows  you 
speak  of.  And  you  are  tall  and  slender, 
but  not  thin.  Certainly  not  thin.  And 
I  shall  tell  you  things  I  would  not  dream 
of  telling  Polly. 

In  this  way,  two  parts  of  my  nature 
will  have  full  play.  Between  you  I  may 
develop  into  something  distantly  re- 
sembling a  man!  So  I  beg  —  don't  be 
too  practical.  If  this  correspondence 
of  ours  is  to  begin  and  end  in  vapour  — 
let  that  look  of  understanding  that  I  see 
37 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


so  plainly,  creep  into  your  eyes  —  glance 
through  your  letters. 

No,  I  don't  like  being  pitied.  There 
is  a  vast  difference  between  the  article 
that  has  been  so  lavishly  served  out  to 
me  lately  by  strangers,  curious  and 
otherwise  —  and  the  close  touch  of  a 
nature  that  realizes. 

So  I  have  the  saving  sense  of  humour? 

Je-hosh-a-phat ! 

Well,  I  need  it. 

Of  course,  Polly  has  told  you  about 
Mrs.  Collop.  Not?  as  Herr  Ernst 
Lindt  would  say!  Her  late  husband 
must  have  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  fitness 
of  things  when  he  bestowed  his  name 
upon  her.  She  "inclines,"  as  she  would 
put  it,  "to  run  to  fat,  my  dear."  I 
should  say  the  fat  had  run  to  her.  Her 
face  is  a  vast,  shapeless  expanse  of  — 
38 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


not  flesh,  nothing  on  earth  will  convince 
me  that  it  is  flesh  —  a  substance  that 
resembles  badly  made  yeast  dough. 
Her  mouth  is  a  slit  that  turns  up  good- 


.e  inclines  r  to  niEL- 
JolaL,my9ear 

humouredly  at  the  corners,  and  is  very 
useful  for  eating.  And  her  eyes  are  un- 
ripe gooseberries.  Collop  was  a  brave 
man — I  write  this  after  due  deliberation. 
39 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Picture  her  this  morning  with  a 
capacious  apron,  and  an  expres- 
sion of  tribulation.  Her  voice  (a 
pale  one  -  -  faint,  lavender-gray  • 
don't  voices  remind  you  of  colours?) 
depressed. 

"Mr.  Herrick-my-dear,  I  don't  know 
as  you  ever  experiences  the  feelings  as  I 
gets.  I  feels  just  as  if  my  legs  would  fly 
off  a- top  of  my  boots." 

Mr.  Herrick-my-dear,  never,  in  the 
course  of  a  somewhat  varied  life,  having 
experienced  that  rather  weird  sensation, 
says  so  —  much  to  the  worthy  soul's 
satisfaction. 

After  a  few  pleasantries  —  she  really 

has   the   kindest    heart    in    the   world 

-  she   leaves   for   the   kitchen,   where 

she  resolves  herself  into  a  chef,  who 

is  nothing  short  of  a  genius.     Maids 

40 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


she  must  have,  for  this  is  a  big  house, 
but  — 

Maids  may  come,  and  maids  may  go, 
But  she  cooks  on  forever. 

I  should  think  I  am  not  in  soli- 
tary confinement  —  very  far  from  it. 
"  They  come  —  not  as  single  spies  - 

At  first  I  was  most  exemplary.  I 
smiled  sweetly  and  informed  them 

"  No,  I  wasn't  fond  of  lying  down 

"Yes,  I  was  thankful  I  was  able  to 
dress  and  be  on  a  lounge 

"Yes,  I  was  fond  of  music —  good 
music,"  I  added,  savagely — for  I  saw  that 
I  would  have  concerts  that  would  stretch 
out  indefinitely  if  I  wasn't  very  firm. 

"Yes,  I  read  occasionally  —  some- 
times thought  about  what  I  read, 
though  this,  less  often,  being  a  strain 
on  my  limited  faculties 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"No,  I  didn't  find  rapture  in  talking 
about  my  symptoms 

"Yes,  my  doctors  were  the  best  of 
their  kind 

"  Yes  —  quite  alone  in  the  world  - 

"  Yes,  I  was  indeed  fortunate  in  hav- 
ing such  a  friend   as  Miss  Carrol  - 
And  so  on,  ad  nauseam. 

I  am  thinking  of  having  a  board  done 
for  the  foot  of  my  lounge  with  an  in- 
scription to  the  effect  that  I  have  the 
usual  complement  of  feet,  and  expect 
to  use  them  some  day.  I  told  the 
Woman-in- White  this,  and  she  smiled 
her  wintry  smile.  Of  course,  she  has 
her  points  —  who  ever  doubted  that? 
But  her  immaculate  white  dresses  make 
me  shiver.  When  Polly  slips  in  in  the 
red  frock  that  is  getting  so  shabby,  I 
feel  positively  grateful. 
42 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


So  you  are  not  afraid  of  my  growing 
bitter?  There  you  axe,  you  see,  under- 
standing already.  What  a  nice  Dream 
Girl  you  are.  Polly  now 

Oh,  it's  a  fine  old  world,  and  there  are 
good  people  in  it.  With  Herr  Lindt 
to  play  the  soul  out  of  me  —  Kendal  - 
my  particular  chum,  about  whom  more 
anon  —  a  perky  young  reporter  who  is 
the  last  thing  in  audacity,  to  turn  my 
room  into  a  newspaper  office  while  he 
hits  off  to  a  nicety  the  little  mannerisms 
of  "the  staff"  for  my  edification  —  the 
breezy  medicos,  and  Polly  to  scold  me, 
and  sing  to  me,  and  make  up  jolly  fires 
for  me  —  what  more  can  I  ask  from  life 
but  the  one  thing  it  has  taken  away  from 
me  —  my  castle  in  Spain? 

Why  do  these  castles  always  resolve 
themselves  into  thin  air? 
43 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Tell  me  that  —  you  who  are  part  fay! 

Oh,  of  course  I  shall  tell  you  about  it 
—  and  Her. 

She  is  very  young,  and  her  parents 
begged  me  to  wait.  Then,  this  came. 
She  was  away  in  Sydney  at  the  time 
visiting  some  relatives.  As  soon  as  I 
was  able  to  write  I  did  the  only  decent 
thing  to  do  —  offered  her  her  release. 
You  see  there  was  fear  at  one  time  that 
I  might  be  partially  crippled. 

And  I  wasn't  cad  enough  to  expect 
her  to  wait  while  I  —  tried  to  get  better! 

Only  —  well,  I  was  fool  enough  to 
think  that  though  that  particular  castle 
in  Spain  had  toppled  to  the  ground,  the 
love  that  had  superintended  its  erection 
would  glorify  the  ruins.  Do  you  know 
what  I  mean?  What  I  wanted  her  to 
do  — ?  Can't  say  exactly,  but  you  will 
44 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


guess.  Perhaps,  to  come  just  once  and 
give  me  a  look  of  understanding  from 
her  pretty,  baby  eyes  —  tell  me  that 
though  we  must  wake  from  our  dream, 
it  had  been  a  sweet  one,  and  meant 
something  to  her. 

In  short,  I  had  fancied  that  particular 
make  of  satin  was  silk-backed  —  not 
cotton. 

Does  the  mere  fact  that  I  am  "laid  by 
for  repairs"  mean  that  the  real  man,  the 
personality,  is  crippled,  too,  I  wonder? 
She  seemed  to  find  it  so. 

She  had  not  answered  my  letter  except 
by  saying  she  was  coming  to  see  me 
as  soon  as  she  returned.  And  one 
day  a  hansom  stopped  before  the 
gate,  and  she  and  her  mother  got 
out. 

The  violets  have  been  early  this  year, 
45 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


and  there  were  bowls  of  them  about  my 
room. 

Girl  —  have  you  had  your  story,  and 
do  you  understand? 

It  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  sun- 
shine grew  brighter  when  she  was  near 


war  neor 


—  she  is  so  beautiful.     A  fur  toque  on 

her  fair  hair,  and  Parma  violets  on  her 

46 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


muff.  A  bunch  of  the  real  flowers 
tucked  into  her  belt.  She  left  these 
with  me. 

And  I  must  lie  —  and  let  her  come  to 
me!  Hard,  don't  you  think? 

For  a  moment  I  forgot  that  her 
mother  was  there,  blonde,  and  portly, 
and  important.  I  only  saw  the  small, 
flower  face. 

"How  horrid  for  you,"  she  said. 
And  under  her  breath,  "And  for  me, 
too." 

Well,  I  need  not  have  worried  myself 
about  the  difficulty  of  keeping  a  dis- 
tance between  us  —  it  was  quite  easy. 
In  some  subtle  way  she  was  not  the  girl 
I  had  petted;  she  was  older.  She  sat 
where  I  could  watch  her,  contrast  her 
soft  fairness  with  the  hard  features  of 
her  mother.  And  we  talked  about  the 
47 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


things  folk  always  talk  about  when  they 
want  to  forget  that  they  have  ever  shared 
thoughts,  wishes.  It  was  —  strange. 
No  word  uttered  could  have  emphasized 
the  difference,  but  I  was  determined  to 
clearly  define  the  position. 

"You  received  my  letter  —  under- 
stood?" I  asked. 

She  gave  me  a  shrinking  look. 

"Yes,  it  was  inevitable,  of  course. 
But  I  don't  think  I  quite  realized 
till  I  saw  you  —  you  are  so  thin,  and 
altered.  Oh,  Max,  why  did  you  do 
it?  You  ought  to  have  thought  of 
me." 

"Do  you  mind  if  we  don't  talk  about 
it?"  I  said. 

"But  you  ought  to  have  taken  more 
care  of  yourself.  You  —  belonged  to 


me." 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Past  tense  already,  you  see,  Girl. 
And  anything  grimmer  than  her  mother 
I  have  yet  to  see. 

"You  understand,"  I  said  tersely, 
"that  you  are  free?" 

"Of  course.  But  it  is  all  so  hu- 
miliating. Did  you  —  suffer  at  all, 
Max?" 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said  jauntily;  "burns 
don't  hurt,  you  know." 

Yes,  I  said  that  —  quite  brutally. 

"Fancy  you  a  cripple,  Max!  And 
you  used  to  have  such  a  splendid 
figure.'1' 

Past  tense  again.  Is  everything  to 
be  in  the  back  of  my  life?  Fate  has 
surely  played  me  a  scurvy  trick  this 
time.  Don't  you  think  I  may  grumble 
just  a  bit  —  on  paper? 

And  though  I  kept  silence,  that  was 
49 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


better  than  saying  the  words  that  were 
trembling  on  my  lips. 

"  I've  brought  back  your  letters,  and — 
the  other  things,"  she  said,  biting  her  lip. 
"I  am  going  away  —  it  will  be  better." 

"Yes,  it  will  be  better." 

"How  easily  you  say  it,"  she  said 
childishly.  "I  thought  at  least  you 
would  be  sorry." 

And,  as  I  live,  Girl,  there  were  actu- 
ally tears  in  her  pretty  eyes. 

It  was  just  at  that  moment  —  they 
were  crossing  the  room  to  say  good-bye 
—  the  mother  standing  looking  at  me 
with  an  expression  of  faint  distaste  - 
that  Polly  began  to  sing  in  that  croon- 
ing voice  of  hers  - 

"Does  yer  want  de  moon  to  play  wid 
Or  de  stars  to  run  away  wid, 
Dey'll  come  if  yer  don't  cry. " 
SO 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Perhaps  I  had  been  wanting  just  that 
—  the  moon  to  play  with !  The  thought 
of  Polly  was  like  a  moral  shower  bath. 
I  had  heard  the  keys  of  her  typewriter 
rattling  all  through  this  interview  - 
she  told  you  she  had  moved  her  office 
here,  didn't  she?  —  and  I  knew  by  the 
song  that  one  more  day's  work  was  over 
for  her  —  the  little  everyday  girl  who 
keeps  sunny  in  spite  of  what  must  be 
drudgery. 

When  I  looked  away  from  the  window 
I  was  alone,  and  I  heard  a  silken  rustle 
on  the  stairs.  And  Finis  was  put  to 
that  book  of  my  life. 

"Tell  me  something  funny,"  I  said 
when  Polly's  face  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. "I  want  to  laugh." 

Did  they  hear  us,  I  wonder,  as 
they  drove  away  in  their  han- 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


som?    After  all,  it  doesn't  matter,  does 
it? 

Write  to  me  soon! 

I  am  —  better,  I  think.  Your  letter, 
perhaps,  or  the  ones  that  are  to  come. 
I  told  Polly  this  just  now,  and  got  a 
mischievous  smile  for  answer.  Then 
she  eyed  me  keenly. 

"Yes,  the  prescription  is  Ai  at 
Lloyd's,"  she  said  judicially.  As  it  is. 

Madame  —  your  humble, 

MAX  HEKRICK. 

So  the  grandmother  is  like  Dresden 
China !  She  wears  a  white,  woolly  thing 
over  her  head,  doesn't  she? 


IV 

FROM  THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 
As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 
Though  her  parting  dims  the  day, 
Stealing  grace  from  all  alive; 
Heartily  know, 
When  half-gods  go 

The  gods  arrive.          — EMERSON. 

I  found  me  thy  thrall, 
By  magical  drawings, 
Sweet  tyrant  of  all! 
I  drank  at  thy  fountain 
False  waters  of  thirst; 
Thou  intimate  stranger, 
Thou  latest  and  first. 

— EMERSON. 


53 


POOR  FRIEND! 

All  the  same,  you  are  not  as 
badly  hurt  as  you  imagine.  Your  ac- 
count is  too  circumstantial.  Unless, 
indeed,  Polly  is  right,  and,  sooner  or 
later,  everything  presents  itself  in  the 
light  of  copy.  At  present,  you  are 
calmly  diagnosing  your  case,  and  sym- 
pathizing with  yourself,  because  the 
symptoms  are  well  marked,  and  you  are 
feeling  as  melancholy  as  you  ought  to, 
under  the  circumstances. 

I  want  to  shake  that  baby  with  the 
pretty  eyes  and  the  Parma  violets.  It 
seems  to  me  rather  a  pitiful  kind  of  love 
that  would  not  wait  while  you  are 
"trying  to  get  better."  Inexcusable, 
55 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


too,  for  you  really  are  getting  better, 
fast.  And,  even  if  that  tiresome  foot 
makes  you  halt  a  little  through  life  — 
this  is  only  a  guess,  you  know,  not  a 
prophecy  —  Why! 

But  perhaps  she  only  admired  you  for 
your  broad  shoulders,  and  the  rest  of  it. 
Some  girls  are  like  that. 

Polly's  letter  on  the  subject  is  explo- 
sive. I  am  afraid  the  "baby  eyes" 
rather  got  on  her  nerves.  They  belong 
to  a  kind  that  does  not  wear  well  —  not 
washing  blue.  Shall  I  suggest  Dolly 
Dyes? 

How  do  I  know  they  are  blue? 
Don't  all  men  rave  about  celestial  orbs? 
And  if  they  had  been  green  you  would 
have  told  me  more  about  them  —  their 
translucent  depths,  and  the  play  of 
light  and  shade. 

56 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Let  me  print  it  in  capitals  —  SHE 
WAS  NOT  WORTHY  OF  YOU. 

Yes,  that  does  make  it  easier.  Not 
quite  at  first,  but  it  will.  And  I  am 
sorry  and  glad  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

So  she  left  the  violets  with  you  - 
and  you  promptly  threw  them  into  the 
fire  after  she  had  gone !    No,  you  didn't 
tell  me  that. 

And  the  bowls  of  them  about  your 
room  made  you  feel  suddenly  sick,  and 
you  longed  for  daffodils !  You  see  I  have 
my  fairy's  cap  on  to-night. 

Well,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  not  con- 
nect the  scented  beauties  with  a  girl  who 
is  not  in  the  least  like  them,  even  if  she 
wears  them.  They  belong  to  the  open 
air,  and  have  stolen  its  sweetness.  She 
—  is  evidently  exotic. 

I  have  just  been  out  into  the  garden 
57 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


in  the  wind  and  the  rain  to  pluck  two 
of  my  special  violets  for  you.  I  don't 
think  the  gale  of  to-day  has  beaten  all 
the  perfume  out  of  them.  I  shall  put 
them  in  this  letter,  and  burn  them  if 
you  dare ! 

Such  a  storm  there  has  been.  All  day 
long  the  trees  on  the  sides  of  the  moun- 
tain have  been  tossed  to  and  fro  pro- 
testingly.  They  have  swayed,  and 
groaned,  and  lamented,  and  one  near 
the  house  is  creaking  dismally  as  I 
write.  There  must  be  more  than  tree 
to  them.  Have  they  souls,  do  you 
think  —  and  does  the  storm  partly  lib- 
erate them,  and  rouse  them  to  some- 
thing like  frenzy?  Just  then  the  rain 
came  on  drenchingly,  and  the  flowers 
that  have  kept  reminding  me  of  wee, 
fragile  faces  with  hair  that  was  con- 
58 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


stantly  being  blown  into  their  eyes  — 
will  be  holding  themselves  up  for  the 
sweetness  of  the  blessed  downpour. 
Some  will  be  beaten  to  the  earth  —  that 
is  life  —  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  But 
the  rest!  They  seem  to  glow  with  new 
colour  —  and  won't  it  be  good  to  put 
on  strong  shoes  to-morrow  and  get  out 
amongst  them! 

There  is  a  great  fire  of  sheoak  burning 
in  my  big  fireplace.  Such  red,  flaky 
coals  —  we  must  have  toast  for  supper 
to-night,  Grannie  and  I.  And  after  I 
have  made  it,  I  shall  slip  along  the  hall, 
and  coax  our  only  winter  guest  to  join 
us,  and  cease  his  relentless  tramping 
up  and  down  the  room. 

I  want  you  to  know  my  poor  Man- 
from-the-Mallee. 

He  came  into  our  lives  accidentally 
59 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


one  day,  and  has  stayed  with  us  ever 
since.  And  one  night  he  told  me  his 
story.  That  there  was  one  I  knew  —  it 
only  needed  a  glance  into  the  sombre 
eyes,  and  the  almost  white  hair  above  a 
face  that  should  have  been  young  —  to 
tell  that!  He  is  a  nervous  wreck,  and 
seems  to  have  left  the  best  part  of  his 
life  behind  him.  Really  left  it,  I  mean. 
Past  tense,  indeed,  in  this  instance. 

He  had  been  told  by  his  doctor  to  get 
away  from  city  life,  get  away  from  him- 
self if  that  were  possible.  And  he 
thought  a  man  might  well  bury  himself 
in  Stony  Creek.  So  he  walked  over  the 
hills,  down  The  Gap  —  and  into  our 
lives.  We  have  never  wished  him  out 
of  them  since,  though  his  presence  in 
the  house  has  not  made  for  either  hap- 
piness or  comfort.  Like  you,  he  has 
60 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


money.    But  in  his  case,  he  insists  that 
it  came  too  late. 


itoqf  Creek . 


You  must  know,  Six-foot-one,  that 

here  in  these  bush  homes  we  have  no 

daily  paper  to  distract  our  minds  —  no 

circulating  library  save  in  the  nearest 

61 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


township,  twenty  miles  away.  And  we 
have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  reading 
lives  closely,  closely.  We  take  time 
to  do  it,  and  do  not  form  rapid,  super- 
ficial opinions. 

I  am  Jack-of-all-trades.  Being 
blessed  with  a  slight  knowledge  of 
things  medical,  weird  happenings  come 
my  way.  I  ride  miles  over  the  moun- 
tains at  times  to  take  charge  of  a  case 
our  energetic  young  medico  has  en- 
trusted me  with.  And  they  bring 
sprains  to  me,  and  cuts,  and  listen  to  my 
words  of  wisdom  with  far  more  respect 
than  they  render  Doctor  Kensington  - 
dear,  good  fellow  that  he  is. 

And  even  the  Man-from-the-Mallee 

meekly  obeys  me  sometimes.     Already 

he  has  begun  to  put  on  flesh,  and  to 

look  less  like  a  walking  skeleton.    But 

62 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


his  eyes  look  back  —  and  I  want 
them  to  look  forward.  They  shall, 
too. 

He  suffers  from  terrible  headaches, 
and  one  night  he  came  into  this  room 
to  try  the  spell  of  the  inglenook,  and  to 
tell  me  about  his  life.  I  remember  so 
well  his  haggard  face  when  the  pain  had 
gone,  and  he  was  leaning  back  in  the 
depths  of  the  big,  easy  chair. 

Grannie  had  fallen  asleep,  her  knit- 
ting still  in  her  lap,  her  little,  fine  hands 
folded  peacefully,  and  the  diamonds  in 
her  rings  catching  fire  from  the  dancing 
flames.  The  past  in  her  face  —  but  its 
beauty,  and  its  calm.  Traces  of  pain 
in  plenty  —  but  pain  smoothed  out. 
And  her  hair,  fine  as  silk,  as  soft  as  "the 
white,  woolly  thing  she  wears  over  it." 
How  on  earth  did  you  guess  that? 
63 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


At  first  he  rather  snapped  me  up,  as 
he  has  a  fashion  of  doing. 

So  I  said,  "Don't  talk  if  you  don't 
want  to." 

And  then  he  turned,  and  I  knew  by 
his  face  something  was  coming.  Some- 
thing hard,  and  bitter  —  as  it  was. 

"I  do  want  to  talk,"  he  said,  wearily. 
"  Don't  take  any  notice  of  my  temper 
-  it's  a  way  I've  got  into  lately.     It  is 
possible  you  might  understand." 

My  friend  —  it  is  good  to  have  suf- 
fered if  one  —  can  understand.  And  if 
it  will  help  you  to  know  it  —  if  I  can 
be  more  to  you  because  you  know  it  - 
I  have  had  my  own  story.  That  it  has 
not  ended  yet  —  that  Finis  has  not 
been  put  at  the  close  of  the  last  chapter 
— does  not  make  it  any  the  less  sad,  per- 
haps. I  can  understand,  do  under- 
64 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


stand:  and  that  is  positively  all  I  can 
tell  you  about  it.  Are  you  hurt  —  after 
your  own  candid  statement?  But  — 
my  poor  Man-f rom-the-Mallee !  His 
face  was  almost  ugly  in  its  hard- 
ness. 

"I  hate  the  sound  of  rain,"  he  said, 
abruptly.  And  when  I  told  him  of  my 
love  for  it,  he  laughed  cynically. 

"Wait  till  I  tell  you  — you  will 
realize  that  there  is  always  'the  other 
fellow's'  side  of  the  question." 

Six-foot-one,  you  are  not  interested 
in  the  first  part  of  his  story.  He  is 
English  and  came  out  here  as  so  many 
others  have  done,  to  make  his  fortune 
on  the  fields  —  a  younger  son  from  a 
good  old  family.  His  life  has  been 
most  remarkable  in  its  vicissitudes.  I 
think  he  has  rambling  blood  in  his  veins. 
65 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


He  was  unfortunate  everywhere,  and 
his  evil  star,  as  he  puts  it,  took  him  at 
last  to  the  MaUee.  He  left  a  girl  behind 
him  —  if  you  had  seen  the  ugly  sneer 
about  his  mouth  as  he  described  her! 

"A  girl  gently  born,  beautiful,  all  the 
rest  of  it.  Cried  when  I  came  away  till 
her  face  was  quite  disfigured.  How 
that  rain  pours!  Well,  I  struck  the 
Mallee  drought  time,  and  got  let  in,  in 
more  senses  than  one  —  it  was  pretty 
hideous.  Not  only  my  own  struggle, 
though  that  was  hard  enough  —  but 
what  I  saw.  It  was  —  ghastly.  Hon- 
est men  slaving  patiently,  doggedly, 
and  in  vain.  Children  sickening  from 
improper  food  when  credit  at  the  stores 
gave  out,  and  horses  too  weak  to  make 
the  journeys.  There  were  prayer  meet- 
ings in  the  little  church  for  rain  —  the 
66 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


rain  that  did  not  come  —  though  these 
good  folk  had  faith  to  move  mountains 
—  not  enough  to  move  their  God.  Did 
you  speak?" 

But  I  had  only  said,  "Don't!"  That 
"their  God"  told  its  own,  dreary  tale, 
didn't  it? 

He  laughed. 

"You,  too?"  he  said  mockingly.  "I 
thought  you  were  too  sensible  to  believe 
in  a  religion  that  failed  when  it  was  most 
needed." 

"Did  they  think  it  failed  —  think  He 
failed  —  the  ones  who  prayed?" 

"No,  that  was  the  odd  part  of  it. 
They  had  faith  to  move  mountains,  I 
tell  you.  And  when  the  answer  was 
delayed,  told  their  God  that  no  doubt 
He  knew  best. 

Well,  I  did  not  pray  —  I  watched, 
67 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


and  grew  into  an  old  man.  I  lived  it 
through  —  the  horrible  days  when  we 
drove  the  cattle  to  the  nearest  water 
holes  where  a  few  feet  of  fairly  liquid 
mud  did  duty  for  the  thing  that  was 
needed  so  urgently.  Watched  the  poor 
brutes  stragger  in  and  sink  —  too  weak 
to  get  out  again.  And  all  the  world 
seemed  dying. 

"  There  was  an  old  chap  near  my  selec- 
tion who  used  to  go  out  regularly  with 
an  empty  watering-can  and  hold  it  over 
his  bit  of  crop  —  trudging  backward 
and  forward.  Brain  gone,  of  course. 
Rather  upsetting. 

"Now,  do  you  wonder  that  I  hate  the 
sound  of  rain  —  the  rain  that  came  too 
late?  I  have  listened  for  it  with  my 
senses  reeling.  At  last  my  luck  turned. 
An  unexpected  legacy  came  to  me  — 
68 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


a  bit  melodramatic,  isn't  it?  and  I  sent 
for  HER." 

Mr.  Herrick,  you  should  have  seen 
the.  look,  heard  the  sneer! 

"I  bought  a  run,  and  put  a  skilled 
manager  on.  There  was  a  pretty  home- 
stead, and  I  worked  day  and  night,  get- 
ting things  ready,  and  —  dreaming. 
Oh,  I  dreamed! 

"The  best  rooms  were  for  her  dainty 
ladyship.  I  grew  to  see  her  there.  I 
told  myself  what  a  brick  she  was  to  come 
to  me  instead  of  expecting  me  to  go 
to  her.  English  girls  are  not  like 
you  independent  Australian  ones,  you 
know. 

"At  last  the  weeks  dwindled  down  to 

days,  and  I  was  in  Melbourne,  waiting. 

Oh,  yes,  she  came.    Did  you  think  she 

didn't?    But  on  the  voyage  out  —  you 

69 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


must  really  excuse  the  melodrama  —  she 
met    '  the    other    fellow'  -  -  a    dashing 


ow. 


young  cavalry  officer  on  furlough,  with 
a  melting  tenor  voice. 

"They  had  matters  pretty  well  fixed 
up  before  the  boat  reached  the  wharf, 
and  there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  do 

but  to  bestow  my  blessing.    That  was 
70 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


tolerably  easy  —  once  the  first  gulp  had 
been  got  over.  I  was  wide  awake  by 
that  time.  One  always  wakes  from 
dreams.  I  should  have  remembered. 

"And  then  —  it  still  sounds  like  fic- 
tion —  the  lives  between  me  and  my 
inheritance  went  out,  and  nothing 
remained  for  me  but  to  go  home,  and 
fulfil  my  responsibilities  as  a  British  land- 
lord. I  am  quoting  from  my  solicitor's 
letter.  I  suppose  I  shall  make  up  my 
mind  to  it,  some  day.  Funny  old  world, 
isn't  it?" 

"I  did  not  answer.  What  was  there 
to  say!  I  am  sure  he  knew  I  was 
sorry. 

Everything  in  his  life  has  been  too 
late,  he  says.  But  I  am  wondering. 
And  in  my  next  letter  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  about  Winsome. 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


You  don't  show  these  epistles  to 
Polly,  do  you?  Read  her  parts  if  you 
will  —  only  parts.  For,  do  you  know 
—  I  always  feel  that  letters  are  sacred. 
Even  if  there  is  nothing  private  in  them. 
The  writer  has  meant  the  atmosphere 
for  the  reader  alone  —  has  shown  a  part 
of  his,  or  her,  personality  that  is  exclu- 
sively the  property  of  the  one  for  whom 
the  words  were  penned. 

Moods  are  sacred  —  don't  you  think? 
So  respect  mine!  It  is  good  to  trust  one 
another. 

And  you  don't  like  Nurse?    Poor  boy ! 
Doesn't  she  approve  of  smoking? 
Your  very  substantial 

DREAM  GIRL. 

Understanding?  I  wonder !  So  I  am 
slender  —  but  not  thin! 

72 


V 

FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


Were  she  pitiful  as  she  is  fair, 

Or  but  as  mild  as  she  is  seeming  so! 

—  ROBERT  GREENE. 


73 


GIRL: 

The  violets  were  quite  fragrant 
when  they  reached  me,  but  I  am 
deeply,  darkly,  desperately  blue. 
Polly  has  tried  scolding,  snub- 
bing, what  not!  And  what  is  the 
good  of  writing  when  all  one  could 
say  would  be  confusion  to  every  one 
and  everything?  I  put  it  to  you  —  in 
all  confidence ! 

Send  me  another  letter  from  the 
clouds ! 

This  Nurse  is  getting  on  my  nerves. 
Folk  should  not  be  so  immaculate.  You 
have  discovered  that  I  do  not  like  her. 
Strange!  I  don't  believe  I  mentioned 
her  in  my  last  letter.  Are  you  part 
75 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


witch?    And    who    told    you    that    I 
smoked? 

Yours  in 

the  depths, 

MAX  HERRICK. 
Reminds  one  rather  of 

"On  the  head, 

Of 

Wilkins  Micawber," 
doesn't  it? 


VI 

FROM  THE  DREAM  GIRL 


As  she  turned  her  face  in  going,  thus  she  drew 

me  on  to  love  her, 
And  to  worship  the  divineness  of  the  smile  hid 

in  her  eyes. 

— MRS.  BROWNING. 


77 


DEAR  MR.  HERRICK: 

I  have  counted  the  lines  in  your  last 
effusion,  and  shall  return  in  kind  with 
mathematical  accuracy. 

You  have  no  business  to  get  the 
blues.  Polly  tells  me  that  the  burned 
foot  is  healing  beautifully,  and  that 
you  are  gaining  flesh  and  strength. 
Aren't  you  just  a  little  bit  ashamed 
of  yourself?  You  should  be. 

Who  told  me  that  you  smoked?  My 
dear  sir,  there  is  an  aroma  about  your 
writing  block  that  is  unmistakable.  Do 
you  puff  cigars  luxuriously  while  you  are 
penning  my  letters? 

It  was  the  fact  that  you  said  so  little 
about  the  Woman-in- White  that  gave 
79 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


you    away.     Or,    rather  —  I    debated. 
For  it  may  have  quite  another  mean- 
ing- 
Puzzle  that  out,  disconsolate  lover! 
Your 

DREAM  GIRL. 


So 


VII 

FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


For  often  you  have  writ  to  her;  and  she    .    . 

Herself,  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  write 

unto  her  lover. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  II.,  Scene  2. 

The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 

Into  his  study  of  imagination; 

And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 

Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit. 

More  moving  delicate  and  full  of  life 

Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul. 

—  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  Act  IV.,  Scene  i. 


81 


LADY: 

I  am  cap  in  hand,  I  am  humble, 
supplicating,  what  you  will.  And  my 
particular  shade  of  blue  in  future  shall 
be  forget-me-not!  You  did  pay  me  out 
properly,  and  I  won't  forget  my  lesson. 
Mea  culpa! 

Polly's  face  was  mischievous  when 
she  brought  me  that  very  thin  envelope, 
and  an  imp  of  mockery  was  in  her  eyes. 

"You  can't  have  quarrelled  already!" 
she  said  meditatively.  "I  thought  you 
and  she  were  kindred  spirits,  and  that 
you  saved  the  other  thing  for  me!" 

When  Polly  looks  like  that  I  always 
want  to  throw  something  at  her  .  .  . 
she  exasperates. 

83 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Show  her  your  letters!     What  do  you 
take  me  for. 


iVB-vBoi'  totftrov 
i^atW 


Your  violets  have  done  their  work, 
and  reconcile  me  to  the  purple  masses 
scattered  about  this  room  every  day 
at  my  request.  So  I  think  you  must 
make  up  your  mind  to  forgive  with 
84 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


all  the  graciousness  you  can  com- 
mand. 

I  did  never  want  to  see  them  again; 
but  you're  right,  right  every  time. 

Do  I  smoke  while  I  am  writing  to 
you?  Perish  the  thought! 

And  you  are  debating  about  Nurse 
and  me  —  ME?  Girl,  how  can  you? 
She  has  gone  out  for  her  walk;  you  no- 
tice I  always  choose  this  time  for  my 
letter  to  you.  And  I  am  off  the  leash. 
I  could  even  —  smoke.  But  I  shall  not. 
She  does  dislike  My  Lady  Nicotine, 
and,  incidentally,  I  suppose  the  man 
who  woos  her.  Well  — 

"If  it  be  so,  so  it  is,  you  know, 
And  if  it  be  so,  so  be  it." 

My  troubles  —  as  the  kiddies  say! 
That  Woman-in- White  shall  only  go 
a  certain  length.    How  would  you  like 
85 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


it,  when  you  are  propounding  a  deep 
problem,  to  be  met  with  a  cool  "It  is 
time  for  your  nourishment,  Mr.  Her- 
rick"?  You  know  I  never  have 
luncheon,  or  dinner,  or  supper  —  it  is 
always  nourishment!  Yet  I  am  gain- 
ing strength  under  the  regime,  you  say! 
Yes,  I  mean  to,  too.  If  ever  a  poor 
prisoner  tried  to  shorten  his  sentence 
by  good  behaviour! 

I  have  been  reading  up  on  medical 
subjects  lately  in  order  to  meet  her  on 
her  own  ground.  But  her  cool  smile 
makes  me  flounder,  and  I  fool  round, 
and  tie  myself  into  knots  (granny, 
not  reef). 

She  is  so  infernally  sure  about  every- 
thing. 

Lindon  —  one  of  the  medicos  — 
enthuses.  "Mighty  fine  little  nurse, 
86 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Herrick!  Wish  there  were  more  like 
her."  And  Scott,  M.D.,  as  we  always 
call  him,  because  he  is  so  small  and  so 
horribly,  knowingly  clever,  grins  cheer- 
fully, puts  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
delivers  his  soul. 

"You've  got  rats,  my  boy  —  rats 
with  extra  curly  tails.  You'll  be  head 
over  heels  in  love  before  you  know  where 
you  are."  And  even  you  .  .  .  !  Yes, 
I'm  gritting  my  teeth,  and  I'm  using 
language  that  isn't  exactly  sick  room. 
And  I  want  to  shoot  the  lot  of  you. 

If  you  imagine  that  is  the  type  of 
woman  I  admire,  you  are  wide  of  the 
mark  —  that's  all. 

I  simply  don't  enter  Nurse's  scheme. 
I  am  a  collection  of  bones  and  sinews 
and  muscles,  with  a  heart  thrown  in  for 
the  express  purpose  of  allowing  her  to 

8? 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


feel  its  pulsations.  And  I  am  interest- 
ing because  I  happen  to  have  exhibited 
some  unusual  symptoms,  etc. 

She  even  concedes  that  I  have  the 
average  amount  of  pluck.  But  when 
one  has  allowed  for  this  .  .  . 
Pshaw ! 

You  and  Elizabeth  would  have  dis- 
turbed her  immaculate  soul.  Her  gar- 
den would  have  straight,  white  gravel 
paths,  and  the  beds  would  be  tiled 
round  —  the  tiles  well  showing.  And 
each  plant  would  be  labelled  with  its 
botanical  name  —  you  know  the  sort 
of  thing  I  mean.  One  meets  it  in 
nursery  gardens  --  and  nightmares! 
Whereas,  the  kind  of  thing  you  and  I 
like,  is  a  wild  where  flowers  have  got 
beyond  a  mere  bowing  acquaintance 
stage,  and  shake  hands  quite  often. 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


And  you  can  pick  big  bunches,  and  never 
miss  them. 

You  and  I  —  that  looked  good  as  I 
wrote  it.  But  wouldn't  Polly  laugh? 

So  you  want  to  know  about  the  folk 
here.  I  think  you  would  like  Kendal 
—  my  particular  chum.  He  describes 
himself  as  a  cynical  man  of  law,  and 
does  the  thing  rather  well.  The  cyni- 
cism I  mean.  But  it  has  a  trick  of 
peeling  off  quite  suddenly  when  his  heart 
is  touched. 

Nurse  and  he  fight  as  a  rule.  This, 
I  note  with  quiet  joy.  At  first  I  used 
to  chip  in.  She  is  so  amazingly  cool 
and  audacious. 

But  Polly  laughed  impishly. 

"For  a  writer  of  books,  you  really 
are  very  dense,  Max  Henick,"  she 
said.  "Don't  spoil  sport.  They 
89 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


are  both  having  a  thoroughly  good 
time." 

Which  scared  me  not  a  little.  Seen 
from  the  writer's  point  of  view  the  situa- 
tion does  bristle  with  possibilities. 

"Great  Scott!"  I  said  feebly. 

"Hadn't  it  occurred  to  you,"  she 
asked  with  much  sweetness,  and  that 
particular  twist  to  her  lips  that  always 
makes  me  yearn  for  paper  and  pencil, 
"it  is  only  in  books  that  "one  can  make 
one's  characters  do  just  as  they 
should?" 

"And  not  always  then,"  I  growled. 
"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  think 
Kendal  is  falling  in  love  with  Nurse?" 

"If  I  did    .     .    .     ?" 

"Horrible.  It  would  be  nothing 
short  of  a  tragedy." 

"Think  so?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  He 
90 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


admires  pretty  women.  And  she  is 
very  pretty,  you  know." 

"Polly!    That  petrified  creature!" 

"She  isn't  petrified  when  she  is  talk- 
ing to  him.  I  have  noticed  quite  a  soft 
colour  in  her  cheeks  after  they  have 
been  fighting  for  a  while.  And  you 
notice  he  refers  to  her  as  —  'your  little 
nurse/  When  a  man  —  especially  a 
lawyer  —  calls  a  woman  of  normal  size 
little  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  Polly  —  the 
idea  is  too  dreadful!" 

"Work  it  out  in  a  story,"  she  sug- 
gested; and  a  few  minutes  later  was 
typing  busily. 

Well  —  perhaps  I  shall  do  that,  some 
day. 

Come  to  think  of  it,  Kendal  is  here 
much  oftener  than  he  used  to  be.  I 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


must  warn  him.  And,  above  all,  I 
must  put  temptation  out  of  his  way  by 
getting  better  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

Besides,  Lindon  calls  her  little.  I 
must  remind  Polly  of  that. 

Last  night  there  was  dead  calm,  and 


clear,  frosty  air.    The  smoke  from  the 

factories  stretched  across  the  sky  and 

92 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


spread  itself  out  fan-shape.  And,  in 
the  terrace  opposite,  Herr  Lindt  was 
playing  Rubinstein's  Melody  in  F  on 
his  'cello. 

Girl,  is  music  a  terrible  thing  to  you 
at  times,  as  well  as  a  beautiful?  And 
was  I  quite  a  baby  when  I  felt  as  if  the 
pain  of  all  the  world  was  gathered  into 
those  throbbing  notes?  I  remembered 
injustices  done  me  when  I  was  a  child 
-  injustices  that  I  suffered  again  with 
the  boy's  ignorance,  and  the  man's 
bitter  knowledge. 

And  then  I  wanted  Her  —  the  beauti- 
ful face  of  her  — the  pretty  ways  that 
were  so  full  of  charm. 

For  she  did  mean  something  to  me. 

Even  though  I  have  not  told  my  story 

as  your  Man-from-the-Mallee  did;  and 

my  hair  has  not  gone  white.    You  have 

93 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


taken  me  at  Polly's  valuation,  I  sup- 
pose, and  I  cannot  blame  you.  It  has 
been  rather  a  "Primrose  path"  so  far. 
But  I  think  I  am  capable  of  a  love  that 
would  mean  to  me  everything.  Whether 
I  am  ever  to  inspire  it  ... 

Imagine  this  said  with  a  sneer,  and 
a  mocking  light  in  my  eyes.  Stage 
accompaniments,  you  Girl  —  how  they 
appeal  to  women!  You  deserved  that! 

So  your  story  is  being  written!  Per- 
haps you  are  more  to  be  pitied  than  I. 
It  seems  to  me  that  finality  is  always 
better  than  suspense.  I  wish  you  could 
have  told  me  more,  of  course,  but,  since 
you  can't,  I  must  respect  your  reticence, 
and  never  seek  to  break  it  down. 

But  if  the  man  is  treating  you  badly 
—  has  treated  you  badly  —  then  I  hope 
I  may  never  meet  him.  I  suppose  I 
94 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


am  blundering,  and   have  vexed  you, 
or  hurt  you.     That  would  be  worse. 

You  would  be  interested  in  the  Ter- 
race opposite. 


Six   two-story  houses   constitute  it, 

and  in  each  house  is  some  one  who  plays 

-something.    A  violin  teacher  lives 

at  the  farther  end;  the  man  next  door 

goes  in  for  piccolo  and  flute;  the  third 

holds  a  weary  little  teacher  of  music 

95 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


whose  brass  plate  sets  forth  the  fact 
that  she  is  A.T.C.L.,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it;  and  the  end  place,  pretty  well  front- 
ing my  windows,  is  where  Herr  Ernst 
Lindt  lives,  moves,  and  has  his  being. 
His  plate  says  Professor  of  Languages 
—  and  one  might  fancy  the  'cello  inci- 
dental but  for  the  Melody  in  F.  That 
has  genius  behind  it. 

He  is  quite  a  character;  short,  fat, 
and  forcible.  To  hear  him  on  the  sub- 
ject of  The  Fatherland  is  a  liberal  educa- 
tion. His  eyes  grow  deep  and  misty, 
and  one  would  wonder  what  induced 
him  to  leave  it  if  one  did  not  know  of  a 
certain  Fraulein  Elsa,  who  is  "von  great 
artiste  —  you  unnerstand."  She  has 
promised  to  wait  till  this  thoroughly 
good  fellow  has  made  some  sort  of 
position  for  himself  out  here.  He 
96 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


fondly  dreams  he  can  do  it  —  teaching 
languages  in  a  provincial  town. 

She  is  touring  in  Germany  at  present 
and  her  people  very  much  object  to  the 
betrothal,  although,  as  Lindt  takes 
care  to  explain,  he  is  of  good  birth,  only 
poor.  And  he  plods  steadily  on,  and 
writes  long  letters  full  of  the  enormities 
of  "zese  Eenglish"  to  — "the  girl  he 
left  behind  him."  Let  us  hope  he  will 
not  share  the  fate  of  the  Man -from- the- 
Mallee.  One  wonders  —  fears  also  — 
the  life  of  a  popular  public  singer  will 
scarcely  prepare  this  German  fraulein 
for  a  quiet  home  with  the  Professor,  as 
he  loves  to  be  called.  Still  —  he  is  the 
man  of  her  choice.  He  has  read  me 
extracts  from  her  letters,  and  his  face  is 
a  sight  to  see 

"Mein  Liebchen!"  he  says  softly 
97 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


under  his  breath  —  "mein  Liebchen!" 

Well    .    .    .     ! 

I  have  been  looking  again  through 
your  last  long  letter,  seeing  the  fire  of 
sheoak  logs  and  the  inglenook.  Why 
don't  you  fly  down  and  make  me  some 
toast? 

Of  course  trees  have  souls.  Don't 
you  remember  your  Hans  Christian 
Andersen  on  the  Dryad?  The  pine 
trees  have  the  lonely  ones  —  the  cedars, 
the  sad  —  the  poplars,  the  prim,  supe- 
rior ones.  Query  —  can  souls  be  prim? 
I  leave  you  to  follow  things  out. 

What  a  bundle  of  energy  Polly  is 
these  days!  She  used  to  keep  her  even- 
ings free,  but  lately  I  have  heard  the 
click  of  her  typewriter  keys  far  into  the 
night.  And  she  simply  will  not  listen 
to  reason  on  the  subject.  Me,  she 
98 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


laughs  at,  derisively.  I  hope  there  is  no 
special  need,  but  one  dare  not  question 
her.  She  is  so  quiet  about  herself,  and 
so  casual.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me 
in  spite  of  our  close  friendship  she  wishes 
me  to  start  from  the  day  I  came  here. 
What  she  has  left  behind  her  of  sorrow 
-  of  home  life  —  must  only  be  guessed 
at. 

Did  she  tell  you  there  was  a  prospect 
of  my  "halting  through  life"  as  you  put 
it?  Prophecy,  or  not,  it  seems  rather 
likely.  The  sinews  were  touched,  and 
ai  present  massage  is  being  tried  —  so 
far  without  result. 

But  in  other  ways  I  am  wonderfully 
better.  Nerves  recovering  tone,  appe- 
tite enormous.  I  am  even  thinking 
out  a  new  story!  Good  enough,  isn't 
it? 

99 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


We  have  such  jolly  evenings.     Some- 
times the  tired  little  music  teacher  comes 
over  and   accompanies   Herr  Lindt  - 
touches  the  keys  with  strange  vigour 


when  one  takes  into  consideration  the 
slim,  white  fingers  —  and  interprets  a 
Master  in  a  way  that  brings  tears  into 
the  Professor's  eyes. 

IOO 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"She  has  ze  soul,"  he  will  say,  while 
his  bow  wanders  across  his  'cello,  draw- 
ing out  fugitive  notes  that  throb  and 
vibrate  through  my  room.  "Ze  leetle 
creature  should  go  to  my  country.  She 
vould  be  appreciated." 

And  it  does  seem  sad,  you  Girl  - 
that  this  musician's  undoubted  genius 
should  expend  itself  in  teaching  scales 
to    blundering   pupils.    Life  —  I    sup- 
pose! 

The  other  night  they  were  here,  and 
the  Woman-in- White  having  gone  to 
see  some  friends  in  an  other  part  of 
the  town,  we  had  a  specially  good 
tune. 

After  they  left,  Polly  stayed  on,  and 
the  fire  was  sulky.  She  had  rather  a 
talent  in  this  direction,  as  no  doubt  you 
remember. 

101 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


She  was  kneeling  down  on  the  carpet, 
and  a  flame  suddenly  leapt  up  and 
searched  her  face.  This  room  is  a  big 
one,  you  must  know,  and  the  electric 
light  near  my  lounge  leaves  the  fire- 
place end  almost  in  shadow. 

She  threw  herself  on  to  her  pile  of 
cushions,  those  little  restless  hands  of 
hers  clasped  round  her  knees.  And 
her  face  —  I  found  myself  wondering 
how  a  man  who  loved  her  would  de- 
scribe her  —  tried  to  forget  for  a  mo- 
ment that  we  were  only  friends,  and 
studied  her  in  silence. 

Did  I  ever  notice  before  how  rarely 
lovely  she  is? 

You  know,  it  has  been  good  for  me, 
this  comradeship.  She  takes  it,  and 
me,  so  naturally.  I  suppose  our  dis- 
regard of  conventionalities  would  hor- 
102 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


rify  some  estimable  souls;  but  I  do  not 
need  to  tell  you  how  profound  is  my 
reverence  for  this  girl  who  is  my 
chum  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  My 
pal! 

She  usually  favours  me  with  such 
mocking  indifference  that  I  see  that, 
and  nothing  else.  But  her  face  that 
night  —  for  the  space  of  the  few  minutes 
in  which  I  merged  myself  in  the  identity 
of  the  man  who  loved  her  —  seemed 
something  apart  —  rare.  Absurd, 
wasn't  it? 

For  I  am  not  in  the  least  in  love  with 
Polly.  Not  in  the  very  least.  I  write 
this,  lest  you  should  imagine  that  be- 
cause I  approve  of  the  way  her  hair  was 
about  her  forehead,  and  the  quick, 
light  movement  of  her  .  .  .  but 
you  have  already  classified  me  as  a  sort 
103 


of   "Sentimental   Tommy,"   some   dis- 
tance after  Barrie.     I  know. 

She  looked  up.  I  think  I  must  have 
simulated  rather  cleverly  that  other  man 
who  is  not  I,  for  her  cheeks  flamed,  and 
her  eyes  flashed  stormily. 

"You,"  she  said  witheringly.  "are 
looking  sentimental.  Were  you  think- 
ing out  a  flowery  sentence  for  your  next 
letter?" 

And  then  it  was  my  turn  to  flush 
vexedly.  She  is  so  horribly  unerring 
in  her  aim. 

"What  were  you  thinking  about,  fair 
lady?  "I  asked  lightly. 

"Fair  lady!"  she  said  with  lifted  eye- 
brows, and  an  amused  drawl.  "Oh, 
no  —  never  that,  Max.  You  must 
have  been  thinking  about  Stony  Creek. 
There  is  only  one  Dream  Girl.  Do  you 
104 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


know   that   your   letters   always    take 
double  postage?" 

"I  would  like  to  see  her,"  I  said 
irrelevantly. 

And  then  —  I  suppose  you  have  told 
her  all  about  that  protege  of  yours  - 
she  quoted  some  words  of  his  very  de- 
liberately—  "You  would  be  disap- 
pointed. One  always  wakes  from 
dreams."  And  I  felt  as  if  a  chill  wind 
had  passed  over  me.  For  I  mean  to 
visit  you  some  day  —  do  you  hear?  I 
realize  you  most  vividly  —  you,  ancl 
the  garden  with  its  hint  of  Japan  — 
and  the  room  that  is  lived  in,  and  is 
home.  And  I  wish  .  .  . 

But    what   is    the    use    of   wishing? 

Fairy  godmothers  are  out  of   date  — 

gone  with  pumpkin  carriages,  and  the 

like.      But     oh  —  Dream     Girl  —  one 

105 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


wants  sometimes  to  go  back  to  Fairy- 
land and  believe  in  things  —  even  in  the 
beautiful  princess! 

Polly  would  say  I  am  sentimental- 
izing again;  and  in  the  distance  I  catch 
the  flutter  of  white  under  a  silver-gray 
cloak.  The  controller  of  my  destinies 
at  this  present  stage  will  be  here  in  a 
few  minutes  with  the  mechanical  smile 
that  never  reaches  her  eyes,  and  a  cool 
-  "I  must  say  I  like  the  way  you  take 
the  rest  cure,  Mr.  Herrick." 

She  considers  that  I  am  improving 
under  her  tuition.  That  is  refreshing, 
and  gives  me  encouragment. 

And  —  here  she  is!  Picture  the 
smile  of  compassion  with  which  she  will 
remove  these  evidences  of  correspon- 
dence, and  proceed  to  take  my  tempera- 
ture. 

106 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


I  shall  bite  that  thermometer  in  two 
some  day! 
Auf  wiedersehen! 

Your  devoted  and  repentant, 

MAX  HERRICK. 

Some  one  was  advising  me  to  take  to 
knitting  the  other  day.  It  is  supposed 
to  exercise  a  soothing  influence  on  the 
nerves.  What  would  you  suggest? 


107 


VIII 

FROM    THE    DREAM    GIRL 


Just  the  opposite  of  dreamy 

She  laughs  at  sentimental  woe, 

Her  eyes  are  always  bright  and  beamy. 

—  BOURDILLON. 
.     .     .     Pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 
Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew. 

— BROWNING. 


109 


POOR  SENTIMENTAL  TOMMY: 

You  should  not  have  given  me  that 
hint;  it  is  so  delightful  to  find  new 
names  for  people.  Especially  when 
they  fit  so  perfectly !  Don't  knit,  if  you 
please  —  surely  the  days  are  not  too 
long  with  all  that  you  manage  to  crowd 
into  them!  It  seems  to  me,  that,  for 
a  man  who  is  "laid  by  for  repairs, "  you 
have  rather  a  good  time.  I  want  to 
hear  that  Melody  in  F.  It  is  a  big 
fa,vourite  of  mine.  And  of  course  the 
Herr  Professor  plays  you  Evening  Star 
from  Tannhauser?  'Cellos  affect  me. 

And  then  —  the  new  story ! 

I  suppose  you  don't  happen  to  be 
able  to  do  caricatures  —  they  would  be 
in 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


interesting?  Send  me  a  picture  gallery 
—  the  Man-of-Law,  and  the  tired  little 
music  teacher,  and  Herr  Lindt.  Even 
Polly  —  as  you  see  her.  Try  to  catch 
her  when  she  is  off  guard  some  day,  and 
you  are  looking  at  her  with  your  own 
eyes;  not  those  imaginary  ones  of  the 
man  who  loves  her.  If  I  were  you,  my 
friend,  I  would  let  that  one  experiment 
be  the  last.  Polly  would  resent  that 
keenly  —  find  it  hard  to  forgive. 

You  —  are  rather  an  epicure  in  emo- 
tions, are  you  not  —  Sentimental  Tom- 
my? 

I  was  very  much  amused  over  one 
part  of  your  letter.  Why  should  you 
imagine  that  "the  man"  in  my  life  has 
treated  me  badly?  Talk  about  blunder- 
ing masculine  judgment.  I  could  see 
that  you  were  quite  ready  to  enter  the 
112 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


lists  as  my  champion.  How  kind  of 
you,  Sir  Knight ! 

Your  deduction  was  not  flattering 
to  my  vanity.  You  see  me  as  a  poor 
soul  whom  love  has  passed  by,  after 
just  a  casual  call;  don't  you?  I  always 
notice  that  if  a  girl  remains  unmarried, 
the  masculine  members  of  her  acquaint- 
ance jump  to  the  conclusion  that  no  one 
has  wanted  her.  You  are  so  irresistible, 
you  creatures  of  razors  and  shaving 
brushes.  You  say  to  yourselves,  or  to 
each  other,  "Rattling  nice  girl  —  how 
on  earth  does  it  happen  that  no  one  has 
ever  wanted  to  marry  her?  " 

And  we  —  well,  the  people  behind 
the  scenes  laugh  quietly  to  themselves, 
and  nobody  is  hurt. 

But  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about 
Winsome.  Does  the  name  suggest  a 
"3 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


picture?  I  want  it  to  do  just  that. 
By  the  way  —  don't  take  a  dislike  to 
the  Man-from-the-Mallee.  How  vi- 
cious you  were  about  the  stage  accom- 
paniments! 

She  is  a  little  bit  of  a  girl  who  has  had 
no  girlhood  —  who  ought  to  be  pretty, 
but  who  looks,  as  a  rule,  like  a  bleached 
flower.  Her  eyes  so  seldom  sparkle  — 
I  have  seen  them  look  dewy,  though  — 
and  the  pink  so  rarely  tinges  her  tiny 
face.  It  is  all  a  bit  pitiful. 

Your  description  of  the  Terrace  re- 
minds me  of  her,  for  she  comes  of  a 
family,  each  member  of  which  plays 
something!  They  have  elevated  the 
playing  from  a  means  of  livelihood  to 
a  profession,  and  are  away  at  present 
in  New  Zealand. 

Winsome  and  her  father  live  quite 
114 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


near  the  Chalet,  and  have  rented  an 
orchard  for  two  years.  She  says  that 
after  one  has  been  pursued  by  scales 
chromatic  and  diatonic  issuing  from 


almost  every  room  in  the  house  —  after 
one's  meals  have  been  eaten  to  the 
accompaniment  of  arpeggios  and  mus- 
ical discords  or  otherwise  —  it  is  heaven 
1*5 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


to   be    in    this   quiet    spot.     And   she 
never  means  to  copy  music  again ! 

She  says  this  with  an  odd  little  droop 
about  her  tired  mouth.  She  was  fetch- 
and-carry  for  the  rest,  and  her  worst 
nightmare  consists  of  giant  notes  that 
will  not  stay  on  their  lines  and  spaces,  but 
keep  tumbling  about  all  over  the  paper. 
And,  as  fast  as  she  puts  them  back, 
they  fall  out  again. 

She  would  tell  you  she  was  not  at  all 
musical,  and  you  might  believe  her- 
till  you  heard  her  sing.    The  child  has 
soul,  and  it  throbs  in  her  voice. 

There  is  a  big  room  in  this  house  that 
I  have  made  into  a  music  room.  In  it 
is  my  piano,  a  relic  of  former  days, 
when  the  Grannie  and  I  were  better 
off.  For  it  is  rather  a  good  one  —  a 
Broadwood  Grand.  I  have  tried 
116 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


to  educate  the  simple  furniture  up  to 
it. 

You  should  see  the  firelight  dancing 
on  the  polished  floor,  and  the  rugs  that 
supply  the  note  of  colour.  The  Grand 
stands  on  a  little,  raised  platform  — v 
and  it  sounds  .  .  . 

And  Winsome  and  I  sing  there,  quite 
often. 

Lately  the  Man-from-the-Mallee  has 
been  finding  his  way  in.  He  sits  by  the 
fire  with  one  hand  shading  his  eyes,  and 
listens.  And  I  have  wondered  —  just 
by  being  her  sweet,  tired,  little  selfi 
It  is  calling  out  the  man  in  him,  and  has 
given  him  an  interest  outside  himself. 
And  he  seems  to  enjoy  strolling  up  The 
Gap  and  talking  to  her  father,  the 
meekest,  tamest  soul  it  has  ever  been 
my  lot  to  meet. 

117 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


So  I  am  dreaming  dreams. 

Winsome  will  not  expect  too  much  — 
will  be  content  to  give  more  than  she 
receives.  Child  as  she  looks,  she  had 
the  gate  of  Fairyland  opened  just 
a  little  way  and  then  shut  —  leaving 
her  outside.  And  perhaps  you  may  be 
more  interested  in  her  story  than  in 
that  of  the  Man-from-the-Maflee  whose 
white  hair  you  allude  to  so  spitefully. 

Her  people  have  always  lived  in  this 
neighbourhood,  and  I  have  known 
them  for  a  long  time.  Joan,  the  eldest 
girl,  is  very  gifted;  but  I  consider  her 
violin  stops  short  somewhere.  Her  tech- 
nique is  fine;  there  is  light  and  shade 
and  her  playing  is  descriptive.  But  - 
perhaps  I  am  hypercritical  —  it  has 
never  spoken  to  me,  once.  Her  face 
seen  over  her  fiddle  is  always  very  calm 
118 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


and  dreamy,  her  bowing  most  graceful. 
But  .  .  .  the  man  in  this  case 
is  a  fine,  strapping  young  fellow,  who 
has  haunted  the  family,  and  seemed  to 
regard  Winsome  as  his  special  property. 
She  has  been  his  confidante,  mentor, 
what  not,  ever  since  he  came  into  her 
life,  an  awkward  schoolboy.  And  she 
counselled,  and  listened  —  and  lost  her 
heart.  I  thought,  every  one  thought 
it  could  have  but  one  ending.  He  came 
oftener  than  ever  after  the  others  went 
on  tour. 

And  one  night,  I  told  myself  that 
they  would  find  themselves  —  and  each 
other. 

She  was  staying  with  me  at  the  time, 

her  father  having  gone  on  one  of  the 

camping    expeditions    his    soul    loves. 

And  the  man  was  very  pale,  and  eager, 

119 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


and  wanted  a  long  talk  with  Winsome. 
And  for  once  her  eyes  sparkled,  in  spite 
of  their  weariness.  She  has  never 
expected  much  from  life  —  had  never 
expected,  till  then.  .  .  . 

I  put  long  trails  of  Virginia  Creeper 
in  the  music-room,  and  the  fire  was  glori- 
ous. And  I  thought  a  lot  about  them. 

But  it  was  Joan  he  wanted  —  Joan 
who  has  always  taken  things  in  her 
careless,  imperious  fashion. 

Oh,  you  Writer  of  Stories  —  you  can 
see  it,  can't  you?  The  child  listened  — 
and  I  know  how  the  colours  went  out 
and  everything  got  gray  and  misty. 
She  bore  herself  so  bravely  too.  I  think 
there  must  be  a  great  many  brave 
women  in  this  world  of  ours!  I  can 
fancy  how  quietly  she  heard  him,  and 
how  her  face  looked.  I  know  how  I 
120 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


felt  when  she  came  out  to  me  later,  and 
clung  to  me  for  a  minute,  and  I  saw  the 
frozen  sweetness  of  her  eyes,  and  the 
steady  look  into  the  future. 


for  a  minute 


She  had  promised  to  help  him  in  the 
matter;  to  even  plead  his  cause  with 
Joan.  He  was  to  write  to  her  from 
time  to  time  to  let  her  know  how  he 
progressed  as  he  followed  his  capricious 
ladylove  from  place  to  place. 

121 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"That  is  the  best  of  having  money," 
he  said  boyishly.  "I  shall  haunt  her 
till  I  win." 

And  that  is  just  what  he  has 
been  doing.  Going  about  with  them 
from  town  to  town.  Joan's  smart, 
flippant  letters  have  been  full  of 
descriptions  of  the  disconsolate  swain 
who  appeared  at  all  the  concerts 
with  the  same  absorbed  look  on  his 
face. 

At  first  she  was  laughingly  impatient, 
and  full  of  suggestions  that  Winsome 
should  marry  him  and  take  him  off  her 
hands.  And  then  .  .  . 

"I've  given  in,  Win,  for  peace  sake. 
And,  besides,  Hal  says  he  will  give  me 
three  years  in  Leipzig  if  I  will  settle 
down  and  marry  him  at  the  end  of  the 
time.  He  is  a  real  good  old  sort.  So 
122 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


I've  said  yes  —  firmly  —  and  everybody 
is  envying  me  my  ring.' 

She  showed  me  the  letter,  and 
watched  me  while  I  read  it.  I  wonder 
if  you  have  noticed,  you  man  of  senti- 
ment, that,  as  a  rule,  it  is  the  woman 
who  demands,  who  obtains?  She  asks 
imperiously  —  and  takes. 

Self  sacrifice  is  accepted  graciously  - 
and  then  thrown  carelessly  aside  when 
it  becomes  wearisome.  The  girl  who 
grasps  with  both  hands,  and  laughs 
lightly  over  her  triumph,  scores  every 
time! 

But  I  don't  envy  her,  you  know. 
Life  —  to  me,  means  something  very 
different. 

And  Winsome  —  it   has   struck  me 
lately  that  she  has  not  been  looking 
nearly  so  tired.    Once  or  twice  she  has 
123 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


even  ventured  to  contradict  my  friend 
of  the  Mallee.  If  I  can  see  them  quar- 
rel in  real  earnest,  I  shall  begin  to 
practise  The  Wedding  March!  And  the 
small  girl  has  gentle  blood  —  she  would 
not  be  out  of  place  even  in  his  stately 
halls  —  with  love  as  beautifier!  He 
showed  me  a  photo  of  his  home  the 
other  day.  It  looks  —  English  .  .  . 
all  that  means. 

Spring  is  here.  Did  you  know  it? 
The  garden  is  calling,  and  I  shall  put 
gloves  on  and  grub  busily  in  the  warm 
fragrant  mould.  There  are  heaps  of 
annuals  to  transplant,  and  dead  leaves 
to  clear  away  —  and  another  year  to 
begin. 

The  wild  violets  are  out,  and  the 
myrtle.     And    you    can't    see    them. 
Poor  —  Sentimental  Tommy! 
124 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


I  think  your  nurse  must  be  an  excep- 
tional woman,  in  spite  of  hypoder- 
mics and  clinical  thermometers,  and  - 
nourishment.  How  particularly  savage 
you  were  about  that.  And  I  suppose 
it  never  entered  your  head  to  reflect 
how  terribly  complicated  matters 
would  have  become  if  she  had  ended 
by  falling  in  love  with  you? 

Be  thankful  that  to  her  you  are  only 
the  patient.  I  shudder  when  I  think 
of  what  life  might  have  held  for  you. 
For  you  would  have  given  in,  you 
know! 

You  hadn't  considered  that  phase  of 
the  question?  Of  course,  you  hadn't. 
But  nurses  I  have  known  —  and  there 
is  the  heading  for  a  magazine  article 
for  you.  Work  it  out.  Real,  and 
imaginary  ones. 

125 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


I  have  a  profound  respect  for  her  - 
your    handwriting    is    ever    so    much 
steadier.      Be   decently   grateful,   and 
don't  expect  every  woman  you  meet 
to  spoil  you. 

I  should  watch  the  Man-of-Law  — 
it  looks  suspicious.  But,  for  goodness' 
sake,  don't  attempt  to  warn  him.  Why 
you  silly  man,  don't  you  know  that  that 
would  be  the  very  way  to  precipitate 
matters?  Damn  her  with  faint  praise 
if  you  really  imagine  anything  you  say 
will  have  the  slightest  weight.  I  should 
leave  well  alone.  I  once  tried  to  match- 
make  —  the  man  fell  in  love  with  the 
wrong  girl. 

And  that  is  what  you  men  gen- 
erally do. 

Your 

DREAM  GIRL. 
126 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


So  you  want  to  go  back  to  Fairyland, 
and  the  beautiful  Princess?  Well,  you 
may,  some  day.  Save  those  looks  for 
her,  and  don't  waste  any  of  them  on  the 
little  everyday  girl  who  is  your  comrade. 
I  understand  perfectly  what  her  friend- 
ship means  to  you  —  in  face  of  the  fact 
that  she  hasn't  told  you  much  about 
her  life.  You  seem  to  have  discov- 
ered that,  in  spite  of  the  type- 
writer and  the  office,  Polly  Carrol  can 
remain  a  gentlewoman.  There  are 
others,  too. 

And  you  reverence  her?  Good!  But 
wouldn't  she  laugh  over  that?  I  can 
imagine  the  sweeping  bow  with  which 
you  would  be  favoured. 

I  do  know  a  great  deal  about 
her,  naturally  —  she  is  my  clos- 
est friend.  But  what  Polly  has 
127 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


not   told  you.      Patience,  Sentimental 
T-      -y! 

You  were  going  to  tell  me  about  the 
Man-of-Law.  I  am  waiting.  Is  it 
possible  that  you  are  jealous  of  him  — 
with  Nurse? 


128 


IX 

FROM    MAX    HERRICK 


How  sour  sweet  music  is, 

When  time  is  broke,  and  no  proportion  kept! 

So  is  it  with  the  music  of  men's  lives. 

— Richard  II.,  Act  V.,  Scene  5. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this 
bank. 

— Merchant  of  Venice. 


129 


GIRL: 

I  am  forwarding  some  sketches 
in  answer  to  your  request.  Whether 
I  can  draw  or  not  you  must  decide. 
At  least  I  can  vouch  for  all  being  true 
likenesses  —  that  of  Lindt,  the  best, 
perhaps.  Though,  don't  you  think 
Polly  is  rather  good,  and  doesn't  she 
pose  perfectly  for  Dear  Lady  Disdain. 
Another  minute,  and  she  might  pour 
the  vials  of  her  wrath  out  upon  me  — 
at  least,  so  I  fancy.  You  may  curl 
your  lip  over  the  whole  lot.  As  for 
Kendal  —  that  is  his  usual  "  Gentleman 
of  the  jury"  attitude  —  a  little,  weary 
smile  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
and  a  sort  of  "Hold  on  —  there's 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


more     to     come.      I    haven't    started 
yet." 

So  I  haven't  told  you  enough  about 
him  —  and  you  suggest  jealousy  as  a 


•fctzownl  Ac  po/e  penally 
for  Dear  Lady  Di/3aial- 


possible  cause.  That  is  quite  beneath 
contempt!  It  is  for  his  own  sake 
that  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  an 
entanglement  in  the  direction  you 
132 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


wot  of.  I  am  behind  the  scenes,  and 
I  know. 

I  am  breathing  more  freely  as  time 
goes  on.  Polly  scared  me  a  bit,  I 
confess,  and  you  didn't  mend  matters. 
But  women  don't  know  everything  — 
Even  women  who  live  in  Chalets,  and 
know  men  from  the  Mallee,  and  little, 
tired  girls  with  quaint  names.  I  like 
your  Winsome. 

But,  I  say,  take  one  bit  of  advice 
from  me  —  keep  your  eye  on  the  Man- 
from-the-Mallee.  It  may  be  your  sing- 
ing he  listens  to  on  the  firelight  evenings ! 
Just  a  friendly  warning,  you  know. 

But  Spring  is  here,  as  you  remark, 
and  I  suppose  most  of  your  time  is 
spent  on  the  balcony! 

This  is  going  to  be  a  hot,  dry  season, 
they  say.  But,  blow  the  north  wind 
133 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


never  so  fiercely,  Nurse's  face  is  as  cool 
and  white  as  the  spotless  attire  she 
affects.  This  exasperates  me.  Kendal 
and  I  were  discussing  her  yesterday, 
and  I  chuckled.  For  if  this  sounds  like 
love,  I  have  never  dropped  across  the 
genuine  article. 

He  gave  his  dry  smile,  and  said 
thoughtfully : 

"Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular, 
splendidly  null,  dead  perfection,  no 
more." 

I  thought  it  quite  conclusive.  A 
man  does  not  talk  in  that  way  about 
THE  woman.  And  he  grinned  appre- 
ciatively when  I  assured  him  that  her 
mind  was  made  up  of  shelves  with 
everything  correctly  labelled,  and  put 
away  in  its  right  place;  and  that 
she  never  forgot  where  each  article  was. 
134 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Give  in?    You  —  Mountain  Fairy! 

I  stopped  short  just  then,  and  am 
resuming  an  hour  later.  Where  do  you 
think  I  am? 

Out  on  the  veranda  .  .  .  OUT! 
And  even  though  the  journey  was  ac- 
complished in  an  ignominious  fashion 
on  crutches,  with  Nurse  closely  in 
attendance  —  here  I  am;  and  half  the 
town  has  stopped  at  the  gate  to  tell  me 
how  glad  it  is. 

To  be  sure,  Polly,  discovering  by 
some  occult  process  of  reasoning  that 
I  was  elated,  immediately  proceeded 
to  take  me  down  by  assuring  me  I  was 
the  latest  sensation  —  but  the  evening 
air  is  blowing  about  me,  and  a  screen 
at  my  feet  shuts  off  the  too  inquisitive 
public;  and  the  electric  light  just  near 
enables  me  to  scribble  this  to  you. 
135 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


From  every  window  of  the  Terrace 
opposite  floats  music.  They  seem  to  be 
serenading  me.  Herr  Lindt's  room  is 
lighted  up  ...  he  has  forgotten 
his  blind  as  usual,  and  I  can  see  his  fair, 
jolly  face  rapt  with  inspiration.  Listen, 
you  Girl  ...  it  is  that  identical 
Evening  Star  you  love  so  much.  I  am 
not  quite  near  enough  to  see  the 
heimweh  in  his  eyes,  but  I  can  imagine 
it.  He  is  dreaming  of  Elsa  .  .  . 
his  fairy  princess. 

Love  is  blind.  I  have  seen  her 
photo,  and  I  assure  you  she  is  nothing 
more  than  a  good-looking  German  Frau- 
lein,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  her  eyes. 
But  to  him  .  .  .  you  may  fill  in 
the  blanks. 

He  has  had  new  pupils  lately,  and  his 
dream  expands.  According  to  him, 
136 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


she  is  "Von  leetle  daisy  —  that  is,  how 
you  call  it  .  .  .  not?" 

And  when  I  tell  him  that  she  will 
certainly  have  forgotten  him  by  the 
time  he  gets  back,  he  spreads  his  hands 
on  his  knees  and  says  placidly, 

"  Ach  —  so  ?    Vat  a  nonsense ! ' ' 

It  must  be  good  to  be  so  sure. 

The  little  music  teacher  came  to  her 
window  just  then  and  looked  out.  The 
heat  is  wilting  her,  and  she  is  very  white 
and  drawn.  She  is  giving  her  last 
lesson  for  the  year,  and  rest  is  coming 
none  too  quickly.  I  hate  to  see  women 
look  as  she  is  looking.  From  what 
Polly  says,  Xmas  isn't  going  to  mean 
much  to  her.  She  is  not  going  away  for 
her  holidays  .  .  .  cannot  afford  it. 
And  here  am  I,  with  more  money  than 
I  know  what  to  do  with!  What  an 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


unequal  old  world  it  is.  Of  course  I 
want  to  do  all  sorts  of  things  .  .  . 
but  just  because  I  happen  to  be  a  single, 
unattached  man  .  .  .  my  hands 
are  tied! 

Her  pupil,  a  great,  awkward  child 
with  fingers  like  skewers,  is  making 
every  mistake  it  is  possible  to  compass. 
Crash !  Does  she  know  that  my  nerves 
are  strung  on  red-hot  wires  .  .  . 
seemingly  not,  for  on  she  goes  with  a 
persistence  worthy  of  a  better  object. 
And  I  meditate  on  the  folly  of  parents 
who  will  persist  in  the  belief  that  music 
.  .  .  music  can  be  taught  to  any 
one.  What  it  is  meaning  to  the  worn 
little  teacher  I  can  faintly  guess.  Some- 
how, her  face,  or  the  still,  hot  air  —  the 
wind  has  dropped  —  has  set  this  evening 
in  a  minor  key. 

138 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


It  only  needed  Polly  to  come  out  at 
that  moment,  and  walk  to  this  secluded 
end  of  the  veranda,  standing  where  the 
light  streamed  over  her  hair. 

Is  it  altogether  my  fancy,  or  is  this 
heat  trying  her  more  than  last  year's 
did!  She  assures  me  flippantly  that 
she  is  much  nicer  as  a  Winter  than  as  a 
Summer  Girl. 

"Don't  get  fanciful,  Max,"  she  says, 
rather  crossly.  "I  hate  to  feel  that  I 
am  being  watched." 

So  I  must  keep  my  fears  to  myself. 
I  am  not  half  satisfied.  Her  eyes  are 
not  so  often  merry  .  .  .  they  look 
.  .  if  one  were  not  talking  about 
Polly  .  .  .  almost  sad.  And  her 
face  is  so  dead  white.  Kendal  says  she 
is  working  too  hard,  and  has  told  her  so. 
She  takes  it  quite  gently  from  him 
139 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


.  .  .  almost  gratefully.  But  from 
me!  I  don't  think  Polly  should  treat 
me  in  such  an  off-hand  manner  .  .  . 
shut  me  out  of  her  life  as  she  does. 


£ 


o  o    ( 

keep  mjMtarr  ib  mjtfei  • 
& 


"Aren't  you  nearly  finished?"  she 
asked,  saucily.  "  If  you  overtire  your- 
self the  first  time  I  don't  know  what 
Nurse  will  say." 

140 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"Nurse!"  I  said  .  .  .  and  you 
may  guess  at  the  exasperation  in  my 
tone.  "If  my  life  is  to  be  planned  out 
by  her  I  might  as  well  go  into  a  glass 
case  at  once.  It  is  my  fixed  belief  that 
she  lies  awake  at  nights  thinking  out 
new  restrictions.  When  a  fellow  is 
getting  better,  too!" 

Polly  laughed.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
I  have  heard  it  so  seldom  lately  that  I 
noticed  what  a  pretty  laugh  she  has. 
It  ripples  so. 

"Sorry!"  she  said,  penitently.  "I 
should  have  avoided  the  sore  spot. 
You  are  getting  more  fractious  than 
ever  .  .  .  that  is  a  good  sign." 

"Hang  it  all,"  I  said  irritably,  "if  you 
only  knew  how  long  I  to  throw  away 
these    crutches    and    race    you    down 
to  the  gate.     .     .     . 
141 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"I  know,"  she  said  softly,  "I  know. 
Don't  ever  suppose  that  I  forget,  Max. 
It  is  rather  an  upside-down  world, 
isn't  it?  So  many  in  this  town  to-night 
longing  for  the  rest  that  is  irksome  to 
you  ...  so  many." 

She  said  it  under  her  breath,  and  did 
not  stir  when  I  said  incredulously, 
"Polly!" 

At  that  instant  my  half -denned  fears 
were  full  grown.  You  know  how  erect 
she  is,  how  full  of  unconquerable  energy ! 
Well,  gradually  she  seems  to  have  lost 
that  look  and  to  have  become  listless. 
She  can't  be  sickening  for  something? 

Dream  Girl  ...  I  have  the  feel- 
ing that  you  are  needed  .  .  .  you, 
and  no  other.  You  are  not  always  to  be 
in  misty  distance  .  .  .  do  you  hear? 
If  ever  a  tune  should  come  when  Polly 
142 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


needed  you  .  .  .  Girl  .... 
you  wouldn't  refuse  to  materialize  then? 

She  seems  sadly  alone,  and  a  man 
blunders  so.  Come  to  think  of  it, 
Scott,  M.  D.  has  looked  at  her  pretty 
searchingly  lately  —  he  has  rooms  here, 
you  know. 

Solicitude  from  me  she  will  not  accept 
—  she  would  tell  you  it  is  not  my  r61e. 
What  is,  I  wonder?  To  grasp  with 
both  hands  as  did  that  imaginary 
woman  of  yours!  I  suppose  Polly 
would  say  so.  And  you? 

"I  am  thinking,"  she  said,  "how 
beautiful  the  creek  will  be  to-night." 

"The  creek,  Polly!" 

"  Hasn't  she  told  you  about  it     .     .     . 

your  Dream  Girl?    Oh,  I  know  it  quite 

well,  I  have  stayed  with  her  several 

times.     Max    ...    it    is    fairylike 

143 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


...  the  shine  of  the  water  over 
the  stones,  and  the  cool,  delicious 
bubbling  sound  of  it.  There  is  one 
bend  where  the  boulders  almost  meet, 
and  a  myrtle  tree  has  taken  root. 
I  keep  seeing  it  ...  the  flowers 
trailing  in  the  water.  And  the  moon- 
light has  just  touched  the  mountain  - 
picked  out  the  rugged  granite,  and  the 
stunted  trees.  .  .  ." 

There  was  intense  longing  in  her 
voice.  Her  face  was  very  wistful,  and 
tired.  That  intangible  fear  had  me  in 
its  grip  again. 

"You  want  to  be  there,  Polly,"  I 
said.  "Well  .  .  .  why  not!" 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  hunted  ex- 
pression that  I  am  going  to  remember. 

"Don't,  Max,"  she  said,  unsteadily. 

"Don't." 

144 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Oh,  Girl  .  .  .  you  with  the  second 
sight,  and  almost  the  fairy  wand 
exercise  your  magic  here. 
If  the  difficulty  is  money  .  .  . 
think  a  way  out  of  it.  She  needs  a 
change  sadly  —  it  must  be  managed 
somehow.  She  —  need  never  guess 
that  I  had  anything  to  do  with  it 
.  .  .  your  woman's  wit  will  find  a 
hundred  ways  out  ...  it  must. 

For  we  are  in  for  a  record  summer, 
they  say. 

Transplant  Polly  to  the  mountains, 

and  the  creek,  and  the  garden.     Let 

her    fight     the     Man-from-the-Mallee 

.     even    that    would    be    good 

for  her.     And  when  she  comes  back 

-  if  I  don't  find  out  all  there  is  to  be 

found  out  about  you,  my  Lady!     !     ! 

Think  .  .  .  think!  And  don't 
H5 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


delay.     There    is    something    sapping 
her  strength. 

If  you  don't — well,  I  shall  discover 
for  myself  where  this  mysterious  Stony 
Creek  is  .  .  .  even  though  you  have 
so  carefully  covered  up  tracks,  and  have 
your  letters  posted  under  cover  to  Polly. 
How  well  you  have  thought  things  out ! 

Again     .     .     .    music     .     .     .     the 
band   this   time,   playing   a   quickstep 
in  the  Reserve. 

Yes,  quite  ready,  Nurse! 

Worriedly  yours, 

MAX  HERRICK. 

My  apologies  to  Winsome  —  let  me 
know  how  the  little  idyll  progresses! 
She  has  been,  in  printer's  parlance  - 
crowded  out  this  time. 

Your  pardon,  Lady ! 
146 


X 

FROM  THE  DREAM  GIRL 


The  days  come  and  go  like  muffled  and 
veiled  figures  sent  from  a  distant,  friendly 
party;  but  they  say  nothing,  and  if  you  do  not 
use  the  gifts  they  bring,  they  carry  them  as 
silently  away. 

— EMERSON. 


147 


each,  m  lorn — ^ 


DEAR  DANA  GIBSON  THE  SECOND  : 

You  can  sketch  .  .  .  quite 
nicely.  I  do  not  wonder  your  pride  was 
touched  when  I  asked  you  whether  you 
could  draw.  I  am  looking  at  each  in 
turn,  and  thinking  busily.  Polly  is 
right  .  .  .  your  nurse  is  very 
pretty.  And  that  looking-glass  study 
of  yourself — which  I  did  not  ask 
for,  Sir  Egotist,  but  am  very  glad 
to  have  —  is  it  a  true  likeness?  Be- 
cause —  if  so,  a  man  with  that  chin 
149 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


should  have  done  something  with  his 
life. 

Polly's  is  surely  flattered?  I  think 
when  you  drew  her,  you  must  have 
allowed  that  imaginative  look  to  once 
more  creep  into  your  eyes.  If  she  had 
seen  it  ...  well  ...  I  have 
warned  you.  Certainly,  she  is  Dear 
Lady  Disdain  .  .  .  but,  even  lov- 
ing her  as  I  do,  I  am  sure  you  have 
idealized  her  face. 

It  was  good  of  you  to  act  upon  my 
suggestion  so  promptly,  you  must  be 
second-cousin-once-removed  to  the  man 
who  makes  his  living  by  lightning  sketch- 
ing. Sepia  wash,  too  .  .  .  how 
beautifully  you  have  finished  them  off— 
And  what  a  pity  you  have  so  much 
money  .  .  .  there  might  have  been 
the  makings  of  an  artist  in  you.  .  .  . 
150 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


While  I  am  on  this  subject,  it  is  good  of 
you  to  think  of  it,  but  we  are  not  in 
Fairyland,  remember:  she  would  guess 
at  once  —  Polly,  I  mean. 

I  shall  scold  her  for  working  so 
hard  .  .  .  but  beyond  that!  And 
I  think  there  is  need  .  .  .  for  her 
to  work.  She  may  have  many  little 
troubles  that  will  account  for  the  worn 
look.  I  think  she  has  been  a  bit  sad  for 
quite  a  long  time.  And  all  my  magic 
fails.  Give  her  a  steady,  patient  friend- 
ship that  will  not  question  too  much 
.  .  .  give  her  your  very  best.  And 
don't  worry  her  if  she  looks  "dead 
white ' '  pretty  often .  Life  isn ' t  a  dream . 
Polly  takes  it  seriously  —  has  to  take  it 
seriously. 

You  said  a  while  ago  that  you  were 
studying  up  on  medical  subjects  so  as  to 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


impress  Nurse.  Poor  fellow  —  I  im- 
agine your  helpless  flounderings,  and 
extend  pity  to  you. 

Some  years  ago  I  was  bitten  with  the 
craze  for  First  Aid  to  the  Injured.  Liv- 
ing in  this  lonely  part  of  the  world  one 
has  to  know  a  little  about  bush  surgery. 

At  the  first  exam,  many  were  the 
experiences.  The  medico  who  ques- 
tioned us  viva  voce  was  a  burly  giant 
with'  a  rough  face,  and  the  kindest  heart 
in  the  world.  Two  of  us  were  in  the 
torture  room  at  the  same  time,  and  my 
companion  completely  lost  her  head. 

"This  boy,"  said  our  inquisitor,  indi- 
cating an  unfortunate  youngster  who 
had  been  the  victim  of  our  bandaging 
all  through  the   course   of  lectures  - 
"has    been    poisoned    by    gas.     What 
treatment  would  you  suggest?" 
I52 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"What  —  treatment?  " 

"  Exactly.  This  young  lady  has  given 
the  symptoms,  but  you  know  there  is 
never  much  time  to  waste  in  cases  of 
poisoning  of  any  description.  You  are 

twelve    miles    away    from    a    doctor 

j? 

His  voice  was  mild  and  insinuating, 
his  eyes  encouraging. 

"I  would    .     .     ." 

"Just  so,  that  is  what  I  wish  to  get  at. 
You  would  .  .  .  ?" 

There  was  a  silence  that  could  be  felt. 
The  unfortunate  girl's  eyes  rolled  in  a 
frenzied  fashion. 

"I  was  well  up  in  all  the  other 
poisons,"  she  whispered  tragically  to 
me. 

"I  would  suggest,"  said  the  doctor, 
blandly,  "that  you  pay  a  little  attention 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


to  the  patient  whose  condition  is  rapidly 
becoming  critical!" 

"I  would  .  .  .  take  him  out  into 
the  garden "  — this,  with  a  desperate 
plunge  —  "and  —  hose  him.  Oh,  but 
that  isn't  right,  either  —  there  might 
not  be  a  hose.  I  should  certainly  take 
him  out  into  the  garden!" 

The  doctor's  smile  was  inscrutable. 

When  we  were  given  our  papers,  a 
little  society  butterfly  looked  up  into 
his  face  with  melting  sweetness. 

"What  would  you  do  in  a  case  of 
snake-bite,  Doctor,  twenty  miles  from 
the  nearest  township?" 

"What  would  you  do,  Madam?" 

"Goodness!  I  can't  imagine.  I  know" 
.  .  .  this  with  a  brilliant  smile,  "I 
should  keep  the  child  quiet  and  send  for 
the  doctor. "  He  looked  thoughtful. 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Winsome  was  indeed  crowded  out  of 
your  last  letter.  But  I  am  going  on 
with  my  story.  If  you  are  tired  of  these 
epistles  you  have  only  to  say  so,  and  I 
shall  ring  off.  Indeed,  I  feel  the  time 
to  be  approaching  when  this  will  be  the 
wisest  course  to  pursue.  You  are  on 
crutches  now,  you  see,  and  I  shall  soon 
"  Fade  away  and  gradually  die. "  You 
did  not  send  me  a  sketch  of  the  Dream 
Girl  ...  as  you  picture  her! 

As  for  your  remarks  about  the  Man- 
from-the-Mallee  ...  I  should 
smile.  Fall  in  love  with  me,  indeed! 
I  think  they  have  almost  reached  an 
understanding  of  each  other  .  .  . 
and  it  came  about  in  this  way.  And 
when  I  tell  you  about  it,  you  will  under- 
stand why  you  haven't  had  a  letter  for 
such  a  long  time. 

155 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


A  few  miles  up  The  Gap  there  has 
been  a  tragedy  that  has  spread  itself 
out  over  a  good  many  years.  A  man 
and  a  woman,  and  a  love  that  failed  to 
hold  .  .  .  quite  an  old  story.  She 
was  beautiful,  and  had  a  wild,  lawless 
streak  in  her,  and  our  quiet  life  grew 
unbearable  to  her.  So  she  went,  and 
for  a  long  time  nothing  was  heard  of  her. 
And  the  man  lived  on  alone,  dourly; 
and  let  the  thing  bite  into  his  soul.  He 
spoke  of  her,  and  of  it,  once  to  me,  but 
only  once  .  .  .  and  we  have  grown 
used  to  his  face  of  frozen  misery.  It  has 
been  one  of  the  things  that  belonged  to 
us  —  and  The  Gap. 

Lately  he  went  away,  to  see  the  old 
folk  at  home  he  told  me  in  a  half-un- 
willing fashion.  And,  soon  after  he 
went,  the  unexpected  happened.  For 
156 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


she  came  back;  to  die,  as  it  seemed  at  first 
—  a  wreck  of  the  wilful  creature  who 
had  broken  the  bars  of  her  cage.  What 
her  life  has  been  we  can  only  guess  at  — 
I  fancy  she  would  call  freedom  by  a 
different  name,  now. 

Winsome  found  her,  desperately  ill, 
cowering  over  a  fire  she  had  made  in 
her  deserted  home.  And  Winsome 
goes  straight  to  the  heart  of  things, 
always. 

I  can  fancy  how  she  talked,  in  her 
gentle,  tired  way  that  moonlight  night. 
But  a  great  deal  has  had  to  be  guessed 
at,  for  she  has  been  very  ill.  And  we 
were  not  to  ask  any  questions  that  would 
agitate,  the  doctor  said. 

One  thing  ...  it  was  the  Man- 
from-the-Mallee  who  told  it  me,  with  an 
odd  catch  in  his  voice,  and  a  gentler 
157 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


light  in  his  eyes  than  has  been  there  for 
many  a  weary  day. 

"She  fancied  that  the  touch  of  a  good 
woman's  lips  might  hold  back  the  bitter, 
mocking  words  that  were  wounding  her 


so.    And  she  kissed  her    .     .    .    with 
that  throat!" 

It    was    in   one   of    his   long   night 
158 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


rambles  that  he  came  upon  them 
.  .  .  attracted  by  the  light  in  the 
deserted  home.  And  when  I  told  him 
that  I  was  sure  God  had  sent  him  in  that 
particular  direction,  he  nodded,  sombrely. 

She  had  done  a  great  deal  by  that 
time,  our  little  Winsome;  and  the  poor, 
weary  soul,  fast  in  the  clutches  of 
diphtheria,  was  tossing  restlessly  on  the 
bed,  and  her  nurse  was  watching  for  the 
help  she  had  prayed  for. 

Even  then,  she  would  not  let  him 
enter  the  house  .  .  .  she  has, 
throughout  her  life  thought  for  others 
.  .  .  and  on  his  way  for  the  doctor, 
he  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  to  tell  me 
all  he  knew. 

And  I  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  saw 
what  he  was  suffering. 

"I  will  go  to  her,"  I  said.     "Grannie 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


is  too  old  for  there  to  be  any  fear  of 
infection  —  and  I  never  take  anything 
like  that. " 

He  thanked  me  mutely. 

So  I  have  been  in  quarantine  .  .  . 
and  it  has  been  a  strange  experience 
.  .  .  the  only  break  in  the  monotony 
being  Doctor  Kensington's  visits,  and 
those  of  the  Man-from-the-Mallee. 
We  never  allowed  him  to  come  nearer 
than  the  garden  path,  and  greatly  he  has 
chafed  at  the  restrictions.  But  it  was 
necessary  to  keep  communication  with 
the  other  world  —  and  the  Chalet ! 

The  little  grandmother  rose  nobly  to 
the  occasion,  and  every  day  sent  up  by  the 
doctor  or  our  Mallee  friend,  food  stuffs 
that  would  have  kept  going  a  garrison. 

And  it  is  all  over  now  —  there  is  no 
need  to  disinfect  this  letter  for  you. 
1 60 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


But  I  shall  never  forget  these  weeks. 
The  lonely  night  watches  —  and  the 
delirium.  The  immediate  danger  was 
soon  over,  thanks  to  anti-toxin;  but 
the  poor  creature  was  worn  out, 
and  heart-sick  besides.  And,  as  soon 
as  she  recovered,  Winsome  took  it 

-  badly.     I    shall  never  forget  that 
man's  eyes  when   I    had   to  tell  him 

-  the  utter  despair.      But  he  wasted 
no  time. 

A  specialist  all  the  way  from  Mel- 
bourne .  .  .  two  trained  nurses 
.  .  .  everything  she  needed,  and 
much  she  did  not.  I  realized  what 
gold  could  do  ...  with  love  be- 
hind it. 

She  was  very  ill    ...    and  it  has 
been  a  fight.     At  first  the  city  man  was 
more  than  doubtful. 
161 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"No  stamina,"  he  said  as  he  was 
driving  away  to  catch  his  train.  "  Worn 
out  before  her  time. " 

But  she  has  come  back  —  to  a  pro- 
tecting love  that  has  lifted  my  poor 
Man-from-the-Mallee  —  will  lift  him. 

And  she  knows  it  now :  the  knowledge 
is  bringing  a  rare  beauty  into  her  face. 
She  looks  —  alive ! 

And  the  nurses  have  gone  —  fancy 
a  wee  country  home  like  that  turned 
into  a  hospital  — !  and  the  man  has 
come  back.  And  two  people  who 
have  been  through  the  fire  are  learn- 
ing to  trust  each  other  again  —  and 
to  forgive. 

Do  you  know  .  .  .  the  summer  is 
trying  even  up  here  among  the  moun- 
tains. And  I  cannot  think  of  another 
word  to  write.  Shall  this  be  the  last  of 
162 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


your  Dream  Girl?  She  has  gone  far 
enough  along  the  road  of  life  with  you, 
and  wants  a  long  rest.  Imagine  her 
vanishing  into  the  mists,  and  purple 
distance.  D.  G. 


163 


XI 

FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


I  do  beseech  you  — 

Chiefly  that  I  may  set  it  in  my  prayers  — 

What  is  your  name? 
— The  Tempest,  Act  III.,  Scene  I. 

— I  am  Sir  Oracle, 

And,  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark  I 
— Merchant  of  Venice. 


You  EXASPERATING    .... 

I  imagine  nothing  of  the  kind.  Ring 
off,  indeed?  Not  much!  You  have 
come  into  my  life,  and  you  are  going 
to  stay  there.  I  shall  allow  you- 
ten  minutes  for  refreshments  .  .  . 
say! 

Your  letter  annoyed  me,  interested 
me,  and  finished  up  by  worrying  me. 

What  was  the  man  who  isn't  treat- 
ing you  badly  thinking  of  when 
he  allowed  you  to  take  such  risks? 
It  sent  a  shiver  down  my  spine  .  .  . 
Diphtheria! ! 

That  Man-from-the-Mallee  wants  his 
head  punched.    .     .     .    You  may  say 
what  you  like  about  him,  but  it  is  very 
167 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


evident  to  me  that  he  was  thinking  of  no 
one  but  his  blessed  Winsome ! 

I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  .  .  . 
the  girl  was  a  brick,  of  course.  But 
then,  so  were  you  —  you  ran  an 
equal  risk!  So  my  hat  is  off  to 
both.  But  I'm  angry  with  you,  all 
the  same. 

This  has  made  me  determined  to  find 
out  all  I  can  in  reference  to  you.  I  am 
setting  about  it  in  dead,  grim  earnest. 
So  I  give  you  fair  warning. 

As  for  letting  you  "fade  away  and 
gradually  die  '  ...  bosh.  Yes, 
I  repeat  it  —  bosh ! 

We  have  taken  too  much  interest  in 
each  other's  lives  to  ring  down  the  cur- 
tain at  this  early  stage.  I  mean  to 
discover  all  that  is  to  be  discovered  con- 
cerning you.  I  ...  MaxHerrick! 
168 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


If  you  don't  write  at  once  on  receipt  of 
this    .    .    . 

Disgustedly  yours, 
SOME  DISTANCE  AFTER  DANA  GIBSON. 

So  glad  you  appreciated  the  sketches. 
Am  forwarding  with  this  my  idea  of  the 
Dream  Girl. 


169 


XII 

FROM  THE  DREAM   GIRL 


Fear  not,    .    .     .    take  thy  fortunes  up; 

Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou 

art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fearest. 

—Twelfth  Night,  Act  V.,  Scene  i. 


171 


MONSIEUR: 

After  such  subtle  flattery  you  make 
it  difficult  for  me  to  insist  upon 
letting  the  silence  fall  between  us. 
That  sketch  is  quaint  and  fanciful,  and 
I  like  it. 

You  are  a  bit  of  a  genius.  Of  course 
it  is  not  in  the  least  like  me  .  .  . 

Do  you  know,  you  have  done  an  odd 
thing  —  accidentally,  no  doubt.  You 
have  idealized  .  .  .  very  much 
idealized  .  .  .  Polly's  face!  Did 
you  show  it  to  her  before  you  sent  it  to 
me?  It  would  have  amused  her  not  a 
little. 

For  what  purpose  should  we  continue 
this  correspondence?  Soon  you  will  be 
173 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


ready  to  take  up  a  man's  work  in  the 
world  —  your  soul  is  ready  now,  I 
think. 

That   being    the   case    .    .    .    you 
have  dreamt  it  all    .    .    .    wake  up! 

D.  G. 


174 


XIII 

FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there  where 
most  it  promises. 

—  All's  Well  That  Ends  Well. 

We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are    made  on. 

— The  Tempest. 


175 


GIRL: 

I  shall  not  wake  up!  If  anything 
is  more  real  to  me  than  you  are,  I  shall 
like  to  know  what  it  is! 

Allow  me  to  inform  you,  Madam,  that 
Max  Herrick  is  once  more  Six-foot-one- 
Vertical  .  .  .  and  that  in  a  fort- 
night's time  that  Woman-in-White  will 
be  taking  on  a  new  case. 

And  I  will  not  stand  any  nonsense. 
This  is  my  first  and  last  word  on  the 
subject.  Just  when  everything  is  get- 
ting so  interesting,  too! 

Oh,  I  could  laugh  .  .  .  you  have 
been  so  far  out  of  it,  you  and  Polly 
.  .  .  prepare  to  feel  as  small  as  you 

should ! 

177 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Last  night  the  Man-of-Law  came, 
bringing  with  him  .  .  .  The  Girl 
.  .  .  looking  very  pleased  with  her- 
self. 

And  Nurse  ...  I  ought  to  save 
this  for  another  letter  .  .  .  meas- 
ure for  measure  Nurse  .  .  .  are 
you  paying  attention?  ...  is  en- 
gaged to  a  fellow  who  is  travelling  on 
the  Continent  just  now!  The  Man-of- 
Law  reminded  her  of  him,  hence  the 
pink  colour,  and  the  animation.  She  was 
merely  keeping  her  hand  in.  But  haven't 
I  enjoyed  the  thought  of  telling  you ! 

I  told  Kendal  'how  near  I  had  been  to 
warning  him,  and  he  smiled.  His  smile 
means  quite  a  lot. 

Nurse's  best  fellow  is  little,  and  has 
twinkling  eyes.    She  unbent  so  far  as  to 
show  me  his  photo  last  night. 
178 


THE  DREAM   GIRL 


"He  looks  —  plucky,"  I  said,  ten- 
tatively. She  actually  laughed. 

"You  think  he  needs  to  be?"  she 
asked,  tolerantly. 

"I  suppose,"  I  hazarded  —  "he  is 
very  fond  of  you?" 

And  then  I  got  a  shock.  For  her  eyes 
positively  softened,  and  got  dreamy. 

"I  think  he  is,"  she  said  under  her 
breath.  And  did  not  mention  tem- 
peratures that  evening. 

Talking  about  temperatures  .  .  . 
this  heat  is  awful.  If  I  were  only  the 
Man-from-the-Mallee  now,  and  could 
.  .  .  let  me  be  sure  I  quote  correctly 
.  .  .  "walk  over  the  mountains, 
down  The  Gap,  and  into  your  lives." 

If  my  hair  would  go  white  I  suppose 
that  would  constitute  some  claim  on 

you 

179 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Girl  —  there  is  a  mocking  light  in 
my  eyes  ...  a  sneer  is  curving  my 
lips  ...  I  am  speaking  in  low, 
broken  sentences  .  .  .  I — have — a 
—  headache !  (This  last,  is  literal  fact !) 
To  our  next  —  and  first  —  merry  meet- 
ing! 

MAX. 


1 80 


XIV 

FROM   THE   DREAM   GIRL 


But  there's  more  in  me  than  thou  under- 
stand'st. 

—  Troilus  and  Cressidd. 

I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Sig- 
nior  Benedick;  nobody  marks  you! 

—  Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 


181 


SIR  EGOTIST: 

I  am  sorry  for  the  headache  —  but  all 
the  same  —  this  is  Good-bye. 

My  congratulations  to  the  Man-of- 
Law,  and  the  Woman-in- White.  I  feel 
quite  troubled  to  think  that  "little 
bit  of  property"  can't  be  "made  over 
jintly." 

I  really  am  too  weary  to  write  any 
more.  Don't  you  understand  .  .  . 
I  don't  wish  to  write. 

THE  DREAM  GIRL. 

It  was  not  in  the  contract  that  you 
were  to  get  so  desperately  interested  in 
my  concerns!  Anyway  .  .  .  this 
is  final! 

183 


XV 

FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


Wipe  not  out  the  rest  of  thy  services  by  leaving 

me  now; 
The  need  I  have  of  thee,  thine  own  goodness 

hath  made; 
Better  not  to  have  had  thee  than  thus  to  want 

thee 

— Winter's  Tale,  Act  IV. 


185 


GIRL: 
I  never  knew  before   that   Shylock 

was  a  woman! 

M.  H. 


187 


XVI 

FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


"For  Love,  the  King,  so  many  names  there  be, 
So  many  aspects  doth  His  beauty  wear, 
Some  passing  sweet,  and  some  so    strange 

that  we 

Scarce  recognize,  and  will  not  know  him  fair; 
'Nay,  thou  art  Pain, '  we  cry  with  shrinking 

heart; 

And  veil  our  laces  that  we  may  not  see; 
'Yet  grief/  he  answers,   'is  Love's  counter- 
part, 
Who  shuns  him,  shuts  his  door  as  well  on  me. ' " 


189 


DREAM  GIRL. 

I  am  writing  this  though  it  seems 
terribly  likely  that  it  may  never  reach 
your  eyes.  If  you  had  only  trusted  me 
more! 

It  was  not  idle  curiosity,  and  it  has 
grown  to  be  sore  need.  I  have  so  fallen 
into  the  habit  of  sending  you  my  moods 
by  post  .  .  .  this,  though  I  must 
write  it,  does  not  seem  likely  to  reach 
you. 

But  you  are  somewhere  —  and,  if 
there  be  anything  in  mental  telepathy 
—  you  must  break  the  silence.  You 
must. 

It  is  not  only  my  need,  though  that 

is  sore  enough  —  but  Polly's. 
191 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


I  have  been  dreaming  too  long 
.  .  .  and  the  mists  have  rolled  away. 
And  I  am  fronting  a  chasm.  I  suppose 
it  is  always  this  way.  What  was  it 
that  your  Man-from-the-Mallee  said  - 
"Everything  was  too  late  in  his  life  — ! " 

And,  if  you  ever  read  this,  you  will  say 
the  gnawing  pain  at  my  heart  is  not  very 
real  —  or  I  could  not  write  about  it. 
.  ,  ,  But  you  do  not  know. 

We  are  having  record  heat.  Day 
after  day  insupportably  hot,  and  at 
night,  strong  east  winds  that  have  a 
blight  in  them.  One  feels  they  hold 
disease  .  .  .  death.  As,  indeed, 
they  do. 

Folk  have  ceased  to  talk  about  the 
weather  —  it  is  typhoid  instead;  and 
the  question  is,  who  next?    For  there  is 
a  pestilence  raging  in  the  place. 
192 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Each  day  Scott  comes  in  with  a  graver 
face,  and  I  do  not  ask  him  now  as 
I  did  at  first,  "Any  more  cases, 
Doctor?" 

For  the  thing  has  come  too  near  to  be 
more  than  whispered.  We  have  it  in 
this  very  house.  And  it  is  Polly  .  .  . 
Polly. 

And  I  know  that  if  the  life  that  is 
flickering  so  uncertainly  should  go  out, 
it  will  take  all  that  is  best  of  me  with  it. 
I  know  ...  at  last. 

Girl  ...  if  you  had  only  let  me 
do  what  I  wanted  to  do.  .  .  .  Now, 
when  it  is  too  late,  my  money  can  be 
used  for  her.  As  you  said  —  "  Gold 
.  .  .  with  love  behind  it." 

But  it  can't  give  life  ...  it 
can't  undo  these  months  of  drudgery 
that  have  been  steadily  sapping  her 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


strength  away  while  I  looked  on,  and 
did  not  understand. 

If  she  had  been  with  you  .  .  . 
oh,  I  don't  want  to  reproach  you  — 
when  you  know,  it  will  be  hard  enough 
for  you.  I  tell  myself  that  you  will  miss 
her  letters,  that  a  time  will  come 
when  you  will  write  to  me  ques- 
tioning the  silence.  And  I  must  wait 
for  that. 

When  you  know,  you  will  come 
as  you  went  to  Winsome.  This  —  is 
Polly.  .  .  . 

A  while  ago  Nurse  came  in.  I  did 
not  ask  the  question  that  is  always  on 
my  lips  —  she  spoke  without  that. 

"Quite  bad,  Mr.  Herrick.  You  want 
the  truth,  don't  you?  The  poor  little 
soul  has  nothing  to  fight  with. " 

But  her  eyes  were  sorry  for  me. 
194 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


There  is  no  disguise  between  us.  She 
seems  to  understand. 

Am  I  too  circumstantial  this  time? 
For  oh  —  Girl  .  .  .  this  is  the  real 
thing.  It  hurts  .  .  .  cruelly. 

I  am  waiting  here  powerless,  and  in 
the  room  across  the  hall  lies  a  shadowy 
Polly  whose  soul  seems  far  away  —  and 
always  restless.  And  all  my  love  can- 
not reach  her  —  all  my  deep  love. 

Perhaps  ...  if  I  had  wakened 
sooner!  What  do  you  say?  Love  can 
do  such  mighty  things.  I  am  thinking 
of  all  that  would  have  been  possible  — 
if  she  had  cared. 

I  would  have  made  her  care  .  .  . 
it  is  not  possible  I  could  have  failed 
.  .  .  I  would  have  taken  her  by 
storm. 

I  was  remembering  a  while  ago  Betsy 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Trotwood's  "Oh,  Trot  — blind,  blind, 
blind." 

Why  are  we  allowed  to  be  so  blind? 
You  —  have  loved  —  can  you  tell  me? 

Memory  is  a  searchlight  that  is  re- 
lentless. It  shows  me  that  I  always 
cared:  a  fire  as  well,  for  it  sears  to  agony. 

Dream  Girl,  even  you  must  have 
guessed  —  and  have  laughed  at  my  folly 
in  supposing  that  that  other  .  .  . 

This  is  part  of  my  very  being. 

If  you  could  be  here  .  .  .  caring 
for  her.  You  might  have  let  me  know 
who,  and  where  you  are.  I  have  wild 
pictures  of  your  coming  to  her  —  calm, 
strong,  self-reliant.  And  I  could  have 
talked  my  heart  out  to  you. 

It  is  some  small  comfort  that  I  can 

walk    again     ...     to    have    lain 

I 

196 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


The  east  wind  has  started  up  again 
.  .  .  one  feels  it  carries  death.  .  .  . 

They  will  not  let  me  see  her  —  she  is 
very  delirious,  and  in  her  intervals  of 
consciousness  too  utterly  weak  to  risk 
any  agitation.  Does  that  tell  you  how 
bad  she  is  —  Polly,  who  used  to  rally 
me,  and  scold  me,  and  rouse  me  to 
battle? 

This  room  is  full  of  her  .  .  . 
memories  that  spring  at  me.  I  see  her 
everywhere. 

And  I  want  her  in  my  arms. 

I  am  listening  all  the  tune  —  and 
there  is  so  much  to  listen  to.  For  the 
nights  are  horrors.  It  is  not  Polly  who 
is  there,  but  some  one  who  talks  end- 
lessly .  .  .  laughs,  and  sings,  little 
broken  snatches  that  are  always  merry 
.  .'  .  that  break  my  heart. 
197 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


But  worse  times  come  when  she  is 
typing  .  .  .  and  she  cannot  re- 
member. 

Yesterday  they  left  her  for  a  few 
minutes  while  Nurse  consulted  with  the 
doctors  .  .  .  and  I  stole  across  the 
passage,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her. 
And  though  I  was  so  near,  she  did  not 
know  me,  while  every  fibre  of  me  was 
crying,  "Polly  —  I  love  you. "  But  her 
soul  was  right  away.  I  could  not 
reach  it. 

Oh  —  if  you  had  seen  her,  you  who 
love  her,  too  —  the  little,  little  crea- 
ture. 

I  crept  away  before  Nurse  returned. 
And  I  am  wondering  how  much  I  gained. 
I  cannot  forget.  I  say  to  myself, 
"That  wasn't  Polly!" 

Many  times  a  day  they  come,  the 
198 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


doctors  who  are  so  sadly  overworked 
these  times  .  .  .  and  there  have 
been  three  consultations  with  a  Mel- 
bourne specialist  already. 

Even  you  cannot  deny  me  this  now 
.  .  .  and  if  you  did!  Love  has 
rights.  If  any  earthly  power  can  save 
her.  .  .  . 

Lindon  has  just  been,  and  for  the 
fiftieth  time  I  am  so  deadly  sure  he 
wants  me  to  be  prepared  for  some- 
thing. But  is  one  ever  prepared  for 
that? 

His  eyes  are  tired,  and  sad.  They 
have  all  loved  her  ...  we  have 
had  to  stop  folk  coming  to  the  door 
.  .  .  the  bell  disturbed  her  —  and 
there  were  so  many. 

"You  must  save  her,"  I  said.  And 
he  smiled  wearily. 

199 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"All  I  can  do,"  he  said.  And  then 
was  off.  And  I  have  to  face  the  night 
with  that.  Then  Nurse  - 

"We  are  changing  the  treatment  a 
little — she  is  no  worse — really!" 

And  .  .  .  almost  abruptly — "I 
suppose  you  don't  believe  in  prayer?" 

And  I  thought  for  an  instant  .  .  . 
that  it  would  be  good  to  have  a  God  who 
would  listen  .  .  .  and  answer! 

She  is  very  delirious  again,  as  she 
always  is  about  this  time  of  night,  and 
Nurse  is  soothing  her  gently.  But  it 
only  reaches  her  for  a  while.  And  the 
wind  rushes  in  through  my  windows 
with  a  dry,  gasping  sound  .  .  .  and 
the  stars  are  bright.  Horribly  bright. 

The  ice  cart  has  just  stopped  with  a 
fresh  supply  but  they  might  pack  her 
in  ice,  and  it  seems  as  if  that  cruel 
200 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


temperature  would  rage  on.  The  real 
danger  is  the  heart  .  .  .  she  has 
had  one  or  two  nasty  collapses  already. 

Strange,  isn't  it?  I  am  remembering 
only  her  merry  moods  to-night.  I  keep 
seeing  her  on  her  pile  of  cushions  at  the 
fire  that  was  always  so  jolly  last  winter 
—  her  mouth  curving  mischievously  as 
she  lectured  me. 

And  her  eyes  .  .  .  ah,  I  must 
have  known  even  then  that  they  were 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  world  .  .  . 
misty,  and  shining  —  and  wistful.  And 
I  would  give  all  I  have  if  she  could  be 
here  now  to  fight  me  in  the  old  way. 

Just  across  the  hall  .  .  .  and  a 
whole  world  between  us! 

Nurse  again  ...  I  think  she 
realizes  how  horribly  restless  I  am.  It 
is  Polly's  own  wish  that  I  shall  not  see 
201 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


her  .  .  .  she  made  them  promise 
at  the  very  first.  I  must  think  that  out. 

Oh,  Dream  Girl  .  .  .  you  must 
come!  If  —  Fairyland  was  best  after 
all  —  for  there,  wishes  had  wings. 

The  doctor  is  back  .  .  .  both  of 
them  are  back. 

She  is  worse  .  .  .  very  much 
worse.  And  the  night  grows  more 
stifling.  It  will  never  be  cool  again,  I 
think. 

There  will  be  no  sleep  for  any  one 
.  .  .  how  she  has  won  love.  .  .  . 

The  moon  was  blood-red  when  she 
rose  .  .  .  even  now,  is  glowing  like 
a  ball  of  fire.  Folk  are  out  on  veran- 
das, paths,  anywhere.  In  a  few  hours 
the  sun  will  be  back  ...  it  seems 
as  if  he  has  never  been  away  .  .  . 
and  the  papers  will  be  full  of  sensational 
202 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


articles  about  the  record  weather,  and 
the  sudden  deaths  from  sunstroke,  or 
graphic  accounts  of  madness  from  the 
fierce  heat.  And  I  shall  still  be  waiting 
.  .  .  or  I  shall  know. 

The  air  is  full  of  insects  that  make  the 
silence  of  the  house  more  noticeable. 
They  buzz  and  drone,  and  dash  against 
the  electrolier  with  a  clicking  sound  that 
rasps  my  nerves  past  endurance. 

Polly     seems     quieter.       Oh,     Girl 
.     .     .     Girl     ...     I  could  not  bear 
that!     She  was  always  so  much  alive 
.     .     .     and    she    will    fight.     .     .     . 
She  never  gave  in  to  anything! 

To-day,  they  took  her  hair  off.  The 
doctors  were  anxious  for  this  days  ago, 
but  Nurse's  heart  failed  her.  She 
brought  it  in  to  me  a  while  ago,  and  held 
the  thick,  curling  mass  as  if  she  loved  it. 
203 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


But  it  seemed  to  me  part  of  Polly 
.  .  .  something  live  .  .  .  and  I 
have  put  it  away.  I  —  shall  not  look 
at  it  again. 

Dawn  already  —  bright  and  glaring. 
A  cloudless  sky,  and  menace  in  the  sting 
of  the  wind.  Polly  talks  excitedly  of 
her  typewriter,  and  some  letters  that 
must  be  attended  to.  Once  I  heard  my 
own  name.  It  must  be  that  she  will 
want  to  see  me  - 

Lindon  again.  .  .  .  We  shall  soon 
know,  he  says.  And  left  me  to  imagine. 

Twenty-four  hours  .  .  .  four- 
teen hundred  and  forty  minutes  to  be 
lived  through.  He  thinks  by  that  time 
.  .  .  and  yet,  I  would  keep  them 
back  if  I  could. 

It  is  going  to  be  the  hottest  day  we 

have  had. 

204 


XVII 

FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


When  some  beloved  voice,  that  was  to  you 
Both  sound  and  sweetness,  faileth  suddenly, 
And  silence  against  which  you  dare  not  cry 
Aches  round  you  like  a  strong  disease   and 

new    .     .     . 

What  hope?  what  music  will  undo 
That  silence  to  your  sense?     Not  friendship's 

sigh, 

Not  reason's  subtle  count;  not  melody 
Of  \iols,  nor  of  pipes  that  Faunus  blew; 
Not  songs  of  poets,  nor  of  nightingales 
Whose  hearts  leap  upward  through  the   cy- 
press trees 

To  the  dear  moon;  nor  the  angel's  sweet  All- 
hails, 

Met  hi  the  smile  of  God:  nay,  none  of  these. 
Speak  Thou,  availing   Christ! — and  fill  this 
pause.  — MRS.  BROWNING. 


205 


GIRL: 

Do  you  remember,  how  to  the  Man- 
from-the-Mallee  all  the  world  seemed 
to  be  dying!  The  papers  made  ghastly 
reading  to-day.  Eleven  o'clock,  and 
in  this  sheltered  room  the  temperature 
is  112.  What  will  it  be  by  after- 
noon! And  still  not  a  cloud  to  break 
up  the  brass  of  the  sky.  The  death 
rate  even  in  this  town  is  something  to 
sicken  one. 

And  I  must  write,  or  I  shall  lose  my 
reason.     Write  —  though    the    feeling 
that  you  may  never  read  these  letters 
adds  to  the  unreality  of  everything. 

Do  you  remember  the  woman,  who, 
when  her  brother  died  kept  on  writing 
207 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


letters  "  To  Maurice  in  Heaven  "  .  .  . 
till  the  unbearable  silence  overcame  her, 
and  stifled  her? 

Girl  .  .  .  where  are  you?  You 
must  be  going  to  know  some  day, 
or  surely  even  I  could  not  have  the 
heart  .  .  . 

I  have  wondered  whether  you  are  ill, 
too,  and  I  remember  the  risk  you  ran, 
and  how  terribly  infectious  diphtheria 
is  —  and  that  last,  tired  letter.  Per- 
haps while  I  am  listening  here  you  are 
battling  for  your  life.  And  I  shall  lose 
you  both. 

This  will  be  written  in  snatches.  If 
what  they  fear  is  coming,  comes  —  I  am 
to  go  to  her.  And  any  moment  .  .  . 
Half  an  hour  ago  Herr  Lindt  was  here, 
carrying  carefully  some  delicacy  for  "ze 
leetle  creature. ' '  He  comes  over  the  road 
208 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


many  times  in  the  day,  and  so  far,  his  offer- 
ings have  been  singularly  inappropriate. 

This  time  it  was  a  monstrous  cray- 
fish .  .  .  and  he  entreated  me  to 
plead  with  the  doctors  that  she  might  be 
allowed  to  "  peeck  von  leetle  beet. "  He 
is  convinced  that  they  are  starving  her, 
and  cannot  be  made  to  understand.  He 
sits  and  talks  about  her  with  the  tears 
streaming  down  his  cheeks.  He  re- 
members everything  she  has  said  and 
done,  I  think.  And  he  has  never  once 
jarred.  To-day  it  was  almost  more 
than  I  could  bear  ...  he  has  not 
wavered  in  his  certainty  that  she  will 
recover.  And  to  hear  him  talking  like 
that,  when  I  know  .  .  . 

When  he  left  me  he  gripped  my  handj 
and  we  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at 
each  other. 

209 


fl    H-         Q 

JlerrLmdi  vs  convinced 

starviitflvl 

0 


2IO 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"Eet  ees  that  you  lov  her  as  I  lov 
mein  liebchen,"  he  said,  brokenly. 
"Not?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.  And  he  went  away 
without  another  word.  He  has  never 
touched  his  'cello  since  she  has  been  ill. 

Word  has  come  that  there  will  be  no 
ice  to-day  .  .  .  the  machinery  has 
broken  down  under  the  tremendous 
pressure. 

Girl  ...  I  am  going  in  to  say 
good-bye! 

Yes  .  .  • .  I  wrote  that  yesterday, 
and  to-day  .  .  .  ?  I  wonder  how  the 
widow  felt  when  her  son  came  back  to 
her  from  the  dead.  .  .  .  No,  I 
don't  wonder  at  all  ...  I  know. 

She  is  going  to  live  ...  so  weak, 
that  it  is  a  question  of  scarcely  breathing 
211 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


our  hopes,  but  over  the  worst,  and  with 
her  face  toward  recovery.  I  am  sure 
of  it. 

And  because  you  are  going  to  read 
these  letters  after  all  —  what  a  budget 
there  will  be  for  you  to  go  through  —  I 
can  bear  to  tell  you  about  yesterday. 

When  Nurse  came  in  for  me,  it  seemed 
as  if  everything  had  stopped.  I  won- 
dered almost  at  the  clock  ticking  heavily 
in  the  hall.  The  room  was  very  still, 
and  hot  to  suffocation,  though  the  wet 
sheet  at  the  window  made  a  little  cur- 
rent of  cool  air  near  the  bed. 

But  I  only  noticed  that  dully.  I  saw 
nothing  but  the  little,  cropped  head 
sunk  so  deeply  in  the  pillows. 

"Is  she  suffering?"  I  said  .  .  . 
or  some  one  said  ...  it  did  not 
seem  to  be  I.  But  Polly's  face  answered 

212 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


the  question.  Tiny,  and  wasted  as  it 
was,  every  line  had  gone  out  of  it.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  child. 

I    ...    had  heard  of  that,  before. 

Nurse's  voice  came  from  a  distance 
.  .  .  miles  away. 

"I  don't  need  to  tell  you  to  think  only 
of  her  —  you  have  done  that,  all  along. " 

And,  oh  ...  Girl  .  .  .  think 
of  talking  like  that  before  Polly  .  .  . 
and  she  taking  no  notice.  It  was 
ghastly. 

I  was  so  sure  she  would  know  me 
.  .  .  I  held  her  hand  closely.  And 
her  eyelids  were  half  shut,  like  a  dying 
bird's. 

And  I  knew  that  she  was  going  from 
me  —  that  I  was  to  see  her  go.    That  I 
could  clasp  her  hand  tightly,  but  it 
would  slip  out  of  mine. 
213 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


And  then  .  .  .  oh,  Dream  Girl, 
when  that  story  of  yours  has  ended 
happily,  and  there  are  children  to  put  to 
bed  .  .  .  tell  them  about  Him 
.  .  .  let  them  get  to  know  Him, 
then.  It  was  such  a  wonderful  thing 
that  happened  to  me. 

I  knew  that  Polly  was  going  —  and 
that  all  my  agony  was  powerless  to  keep 
her  back.  And  —  like  a  flash  —  came 
the  memory  of  One  who,  when  He  was 
on  earth,  healed  the  sick,  I  went  right 
back  to  childhood  .  .  .  and  the 
child's  faith  came  strongly,  strongly. 
All  the  years  of  unbelief  blotted  out,  and 
as  if  they  had  never  been. 

I  knew  why  the  Christ  of  God  won  the 
love  of  the  heart.  ...  In  the  deeps 
of  life  —  one  needs  Him. 

And  I  felt  that  He  was  in  the  room 
214 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


.  .  .  and  the  world  had  gone  back 
two  thousand  years.  And  it  was  the 
little  maiden  He  had  come  to  waken  to 
life.  .  .  . 

It  did  not  seem  as  if  I  had  to  ask  Him 
.  .  .  after  that  first  wild  cry  that 
surely  reached! 

The  little,  drooping  face  turned  ever 
so  slightly  on  the  pillow,  and  her  eyes 
unclosed  listlessly.  And  they  were 
weary  .  .  .  but  Polly! 

And  I  said,  "Polly  —  I  want  you  — 
you  must  come  back  to  me,  Sweet- 
heart." 

There  was  a  faint,  quivering  smile 
that  began  in  her  eyes,  and  reached  her 
lips. 

"Stupid  old  Max,"  she  said  weakly. 
"Do  you  mind  if  I  go  to  sleep?" 

And  I  knew  that  it  was  no  vision,  but 
215 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


a  blessed  reality,  and  that  we  were 
living  in  the  year  1908  —  and  that 
Polly  was  back. 

Her  hand  stirring  sometimes  in  mine. 
.  .  .  Oh,  you  Girl  .  .  .  stir- 
ring .  .  .  and  live! 

And  the  heat  flush  on  her  cheeks  was 
good  to  see  after  that  awful,  waxen 
pallor. 

She  was  still  sleeping  sweetly  when  her 
ringers  slipped  from  mine,  and  I  fol- 
lowed Nurse  out  of  the  room. 

"Good  boy,"  she  said,  approvingly, 
when  I  threw  myself  down  in  the  biggest 
chair  I  could  find,  and  ate  as  if  I  had 
been  famished.  "You  have  obeyed 
directions  splendidly  so  far  —  but  it  is 
almost  too  much  to  hope  that  you  will 
continue  to  do  so. "  And  —  as  I  live, 
Girl  (what  a  trick  I  have  of  saying 
216 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


that!)  the  very  commonplace  way  in 
which  these  words  were  uttered  made 
me  realize  that  Polly  was  really,  and 
actually,  round  the  corner.  We  haven't 
talked  much  for  a  long  time. 

"Quite  satisfactory,"  she  went  on  in 
her  old  professional  way;  "but  you  must 
be  sensible,  and  help  us.  For  a  while 
.  .  .  a  fortnight,  say  ...  I  am 
going  to  keep  you  out  of  the  room. 
Your  eyes  give  you  away.  I  am  sorry 
to  have  to  put  your  romance  into  such 
matter-of-fact  words  .  .  .  but  you 
don't  mind  that,  do  you?  My  patient 
must  not  be  startled;  and  you  must  be 
content  for  a  long  time  to  let  her  quietly 
get  better  .  .  .  eat,  and  drink,  and 
sleep  like  a  child,  with  no  complex 
emotions  to  upset  our  calculations. 
More  ham?" 

217 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"More  ham  .  .  .  !"  I  spluttered 
indignantly.  "You  are  a  rattling  good 
nurse,  but  you  don't  know  everything. 

Polly  will  remember  when  she  wakes. 

» 

"Don't  flatter  yourself  —  she  will 
probably  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  You 
must  be  patient.  ...  I  mean  it, 
Mr.  Herrick." 

And  she  says  this  in  quite  the  old 
style  .  .  .  and  I  groan  inwardly, 
and  submit. 

For  I  would  have  a  much  easier  way 
out  of  the  difficulty.  If  Polly  were  my 
wife,  I  would  carry  her  away  from  them 
all,  as  soon  as  she  was  fit.  I  want 
.  .  .  My  Own  Way  .  .  .  and 
that  is  the  long  and  short  of  it,  I  .  .  . 
would  be  so  gentle  with  her.  But, 
no  it  is  not  to  be  thought  of  ... 
218 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Those  two  medicos  and  the  Woman- 
in- White  are  three  too  many  for  me. 

I  wonder  what  Polly  would  say? 

The  clouds  that  have  been  gathering 
heavily  all  the  afternoon  have  drifted 
away,  and  the  sun  is  making  everything 
in  the  street  look  bronze,  and  ugly. 
And  —  just  over  the  way  .  .  . 

Oh,  Dream  Girl  —  it  might  so  easily 
have  been  Polly! 

The  little  music  teacher  I  told  you 
about  has  indeed  given  her  last  lesson. 
All  through  the  holidays  she  has  lain, 
tossing  restlessly  .  .  .  but  that  is 
over  now.  And  at  least,  she  has  had 
kind  friends  about  her.  And  I  think 
.  .  .  on  The  Other  Side  they  will 
make  things  up ! 

It  seems  almost  too  hot  for  funerals; 
yet  there  have  been  so  many  these  days. 
219 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


And  the  coffin  is  so  pitifully  small. 
.  .  .  In  one  of  the  hansoms  I  see 
Herr  Lindt.  He  will  be  wondering, 
no  doubt,  whether  they  will  let  "ze 
child  play  her  piano  up  zere." 

But  I  think  she  will  want  a  long  rest 
first. 

That  was  yesterday,  and  still  no 
change.  I  suppose  we  shall  get  used 
to  it  in  time.  Polly  is  waking  —  I  can 
hear  Nurse's  voice,  and  .  .  .  surely 

.     .     a  low  laugh? 

Then,  the  Woman-in- White,  with  her 
eyes  suspiciously  moist,  though  her  lips 
are  twitching. 

"She  wants  to  know,"  she  explains, 
"whether  Mrs.  Collop  has  melted  into 
lard  with  the  heat,  and  if  we  have  taken 
steps  to  preserve  the  same." 

And  now  I  know  she  is  really  better, 
220 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


and  old  Sol  may  do  his  worst  since  she 
is  well  enough  to  be  mischievous. 

And  then  ...  a  lecture.  How 
many  have  I  had  since  yesterday 
.  .  .  ?  And  boiled  down,  the  sub- 
stance is  the  old  .  .  . 

"My  patient  must  live  the  life  of 
a  child  for  quite  three  weeks  .  .  . 
she  must,  indeed.  Is  that  Herr 
Lindt?" 

"Yes,  and  for  heaven's  sake  don't 
let  him  know  the  end  of  that  crayfish. 
He  dislikes  cats  anyway  .  .  .  but 
if  he  knew  that  General  French  had 
nearly  burst  himself  over  that  cherished 
shellback,  more  than  the  cat  would 
stand  in  danger.  Nurse  .  .  .  dear 
.  .  .  I  believe  there  is  a  change 
coming!" 

"Go  out  and  whistle  for  it,"  she 
221 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


suggests.  "  Softly,  now  —  you  are  such 
a  big,  clumsy  fellow.  .  .  . " 

And  I  whistle  .  .  .  ?  Oh,  "Polly 
darling,"  of  course! 

Girl,  I  shall  soon  have  your  number, 

and  ring  up! 

Yours, 

MAX. 


222 


XVIII 

FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


And  every  living  thing  did  joy  in  life, 

And     every    thing     of     beauty    did     seem 

living     .    .    . 

Oh,  then,  life's  pulse  was  at  my  heart  reviving. 
—  MRS.  BROWNING. 

I  will  be  the  pattern  of  all  patience;  I  will  say 
nothing. 

— King  Lear,  Act  III.,  Scene  a. 


223 


LADY: 

Just  three  weeks  since  I  last  wrote, 
and  already  she  is  beginning  to  ask 
questions  .  .  .  Polly,  I  mean. 
But  there  is  no  need  to  explain  to  you, 
you  understand  that  there  is  only  one 
She  in  the  whole  world.  She  does 
everything  with  conviction,  and  her 
recovery  has  been  a  very  rapid  one  — 
when  one  considers  .  .  . 

This  evening  being  calm  and  beau- 
tiful, and  that  Woman-in- White  having 
as  much  sense  as  two  ordinary  people 
put  together,  Polly,  on  a  lounge  piled 
with  cushions  three  deep  —  I  counted 
them  as  they  were  carried  out,  and  even 
sacrificed  two  dearly  loved  ones  of  my 
225 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


own  .  .  .  is  on  the  veranda,  sniffing  the 
air  with  every  appearance  of  content. 

She  is  rather  a  more  substantial  Polly 
than  she  was  a  fortnight  ago,  though 


she  still  looks  ridiculously  small,  and 
her  rough  little  head  is  so  quaintly 
boyish.  And  her  eyes  are  as  big  as  the 
proverbial  saucers  —  why  always  sau- 
226 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


cers  —  pallid,  shallow  things?  —  and 
her  lips  tremble  when  she  laughs.  But 
her  hands  have  ceased  to  be  birds'  claws, 
and  she  looks  —  vital ! 

Ten  minutes  ago  Mrs.  Collop  lum- 
bered down  the  path  clad  in  white,  with 
an  extraordinary  confection  —  go  up 
top  for  that,  my  boy!  —  that  I  believe 
you  women  call  a  sun-hat  on  her  head. 
Picture  that  face  peeping  coyly  out 
from  frills  of  lace  that  go  all  round  the 
blessed  thing. 

She  turned  in  the  path  —  a  proceed- 
ing fraught  with  danger  to  some  pot 
plants  on  the  lawn  —  and  looked  at  us 
with  swimming  eyes. 

"You    look    so    natural    like,"    she 

faltered,  one  fat  hand  wandering  toward 

that  part  of  her  physiognomy  where 

pearly     drops    had    gathered.      "Mr. 

227 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Herrick-my-dear,  it  reminds  me  of  the 
time  when  Collop  and  me  .  .  . " 

"You'll  be  late  for  church,  Mrs. 
Collop,"  said  Polly  in  that  uncertain 
little  voice  of  hers.  And  the  good  soul 
went  swaying  down  the  path  and 
through  the  gate. 

"What  a  pity  to  cut  short  her  elo- 
quence," I  said,  sotto  voce. 

Polly  did  not  answer. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the 
chimes  ceased. 

"Do  you  know,"  Polly  said,  suddenly, 
"when  I  was  so  ill  that  time  I  had  a 
strange  experience.  I  was  almost  too 
tired  to  fight,  you  know  .  .  .  and 
I'm  not  even  sure  that  I  wanted  to. 
And  I  was  drifting  out  on  a  calm  sea  — 
drifting  away.  And  a  voice  called  me 
back.  I  took  up  the  oars  again  most 
228 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


unwillingly.  And  I  had  the  fancy  that 
it  was  your  voice,  Max.  Absurd,  wasn't 
it?" 

"Very,"  I  said,  choking  back  the 
inclination  to  tell  her  all.  For  it's 
jolly  hard  on  a  fellow  to  have  to  play 
the  game  of  friendship  when  one  means 
something  so  different. 

"I  don't  believe,"  said  Polly  petu- 
lantly, "that  you  are  a  bit  glad  I  am 
better.  You  are  thinking  of  your 
Dream  Girl  all  the  time,  and  I  come 
in  nowhere." 

"Think  so?"  I  said,  leaning  in  rather 
a  bored  fashion  against  the  veranda 
post,  and  telling  myself  that  she  must 
know  —  that  my  eyes  .  .  . 

Why,  even  Nurse  said  they  gave  me 
away.  And  one  can't  muzzle  eyes! 

"I  have  been  wondering,"  she  said 
229 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


with  a  little,  shadowy  smile  playing 
round  her  lips  "whether  you  have 
fallen  in  love  with  her?" 

"Go  up  top,"  I  said  lazily.  "Your 
perspicacity  is  growing  with  every  hour 
of  your  life.  How  long  did  it  take  you 
to  arrive  at  that  conclusion?" 

And    oh,    Nurse,    Nurse 
surely  this  shall  be  accounted  to  me  for 
righteousness!    It  would  have  been  so 
easy    to    tell    her    then.     Silence    for 
a  while,  then  - 

"Where  is  she,  Polly?  I  want  to  tell 
her  all  about  your  illness.  I  want  to 
know  her  —  see  her." 

"Good  boy,"  she  said  with  a  trace 
of  the  old  mockery.  "You  want  —  so 
much.  But  that  was  always  your  way. 
Let  it  rest,  Max  —  it  is  all  over  —  your 
need  for  her  gone.  You  have  long 
230 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


ceased  to  be  the  bundle  of  nerves  you 
were  when  she  took  you  in  hand.  You 
are  almost  —  the  finished  article!" 

"Polly  ...  I  believe  you  are 
jealous  of  her!" 

And  then  I  was  treated  to  an  old-time 
flash. 

"What  amazing  discernment!  Did 
you  think  that  would  annoy  me?  Let 
your  Dream  Girl  remain  an  episode." 

"So  that  was  all  I  meant  to  her?" 
She  laughed  softly. 

"Did  it  have  its  feelings  hurt,  then?" 
she  asked,  mischievously. 

"Hang  it  all,  Polly,"  I  said,  irritably, 
"I  tell  you  we  got  to  understand  each 

other  perfectly.     I  could  tell  her  things 

)) 

"That   you   couldn't   tell  me?    Oh, 
I    quite    grasp  that.      There    was    so 
231 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


much  you  couldn't  tell  me,  wasn't 
there?" 

"At  least  she  did  not  make  fun  of 
everything  I  said,  as  you  do!" 

"No?  What  an  exemplary  young 
woman  ...  I  must  take  lessons. 
To  understand  you.  .  .  .  Poor 
Max!  If  I  had  realized  that  things 
were  so  serious,  I  would  have  done  you 
such  a  beautifully  typed  Misunderstood 
to  pin  on  to  your  lounge.  .  .  . " 

"Polly,  you  are  getting  better!" 

"So  the  doctors  say,  Mr.  Herrick, 
I  really  think  they  are  right." 

"I  can't  understand  how  you  and 
she  came  to  be  friends.  .  .  ." 

"Opposites  in  nature  .  .  .  that 
is  the  only  solution  I  can  offer." 

"Will  you  give  me  her  address?" 

"So  that  she  may  heal  the  wounds 
232 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


I  have  inflicted?    How  did  you  exist 
without  her  that  time  I  was  ill?  " 

"It  was  — horrible!" 

Now  .  .  .  what  made  my  voice 
break  as  it  did  just  then?  You  will 
guess,  Girl. 

Polly  looked  at  me  very  wistfully. 

"I  could  not  provide  against  such  a 
contingency,  you  know,"  she  said, 
slowly.  "I  will  act  as  postman  again, 
if  you  are  really  determined.  But  I 
can't  see  anything  to  be  gained." 

"Polly,"  said  I,  abruptly,  "does  a 
girl  know  when  a  man  is  in  love  with 
her?" 

"If  he  tells  her  so,  Max." 

"Not  unless?"  . 

"Not  unless." 

"You  mean  in  actual  words?" 

"How  else?" 

233 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"Well,  I  think  she  ought  to  guess." 

"She  does  guess  sometimes  .  .  . 
wrongly.  It  makes  her  more  careful 
next  time.  You  men  are  blundering 
creatures,  you  know;  you  sometimes 
talk  about  the  girl  you  love  —  to  the 
girl  who  loves  you." 

Polly  looked  so  worn  when  she  said 
this  that  I  was  relieved  when  the 
Woman-in- White  appeared,  and  her 
patient  obediently  swallowed  the  cupful 
of  Benger's  Food  that  was  her  present 
occasional  martyrdom. 

"Quarrelling?"  Nurse  asked,  with 
her  eyebrows  lifted  slightly.  "Mr. 
Herrick,  I  cannot  give  you  a  diploma 
for  nursing  —  my  patient  looks  fever- 
ish." 

"Want  the  thermometer?"  I  said, 
flippantly.  "Oh,  I  forgot  —  you  al- 
234 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


ways  carry  it  with  you,  don't  you  - 
'to  be  well  shaken  before  taken.'  I 
must  be  a  worse  character  than  I  imag- 
ined! I  made  a  bad  patient  .  .  . 
and  now  I  am  to  be  equally  a  failure 
as  a  nurse!" 

"Go  over  and  see  Herr  Lindt," 
Polly  suggested,  weakly.  "And  Max 
.  .  .  if  you  could  delicately  con- 
vey the  idea  that  even  full  diet  does  not 
mean  a  huge  fowl  a  day,  you  would  save 
my  feelings,  and  his  purse  —  good  old 
soul  that  he  is." 

But  it  was  just  at  that  moment  he 
appeared,  a  capacious  Panama  hat  on 
his  curly  head. 

Now   it  was   always  pretty  to   see 

him  with  Polly  —  I  watched  them  with 

an  odd  tightness  at  my  heart.    For  she 

is  such  a  shadowy  sweetheart  as  yet. 

235 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Off  went  the  Panama,  and  the  Herr 
Professor  made  a  low  bow. 

"My  Lady,"  he  said,  under  his 
breath.  "Oh,  but  you  are  too  ezzerial 
.  .  .  you  vill  fly  avay ! " 

"I  never  felt  less  like  flying,  Herr 
Lindt!" 

"Ach!  —  Zat  ees  so.  Ze  leetle  crea- 
ture must  eat  many  fowls  —  ees  eet  not, 
my  good  voman?  "  with  a  glare  at  Nurse 
-  of  whom  he  is  more  than  half  in  awe. 
"And  much  good,  red  beef.  Ze  poor 
professor  has  missed  ze  leetle  lady  all 
zis  sad  time  —  he  has  shed  tears 
.  .  .  many  tears." 

Polly  lifted  her  weak,  little  hand,  and 
touched  his  softly. 

"Did  you  cry,  really?    How  lovely 
of  you.     I  shall  never  forget  that.    I  am 
quite  sure  Mr.  Herrick  did  not  cry." 
236 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Now  —  what  spirit  of  evil  entered 
into  her  that  she  should  say  that? 
The  good  fellow's  feelings  nearly  gave 
me  away. 

"My  Lady,  eet  ees  not  zat  all  can 
relieve  ze  feelings  by  ze  tears.  Zere  are 
ozzer  vays.  My  Herrick  —  yesh,  he 
tramp  up  and  down  viz  his  face  as 
vhite  as  paper,  and  hees  eyes,  zey 
alvays  ask  somezing  —  al-vays.  And 
ve  tell  him, '  See,  she  vill  soon  be  better.' 
But  he  shake  his  head,  and  he  vill  not 
speak  —  ve  are  as  ze  good  God  made 
us.  Leetle  creature  ...  if  you 
had  not  come  back,  my  Herrick  I  do  not 
know  vat  he  vill  do  at  all." 

"Herr  Lindt,"  said  the  Woman-in- 
White  abruptly,  "I  had  a  letter  from 
a  friend  of  mine  who  is  abroad,  yester- 
day. He  has  heard  Fraulein  Elsa  sing 
237 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


in  Wiesbaden.    He  says  her  voice  is 
very  brilliant." 

And  then  the  light  flooded  the  clever 
face. 

"Ach!  but  you  should  hear  her 
seeng!"  he  said,  softly. 

And  the  tension  was  relaxed. 

The  Professor  was  lost  in  reflection. 

"Since  she  vas  von  leetle  child  I  have 
faithful  been,"  he  said,  dreamily. 
"Beeg,  long  plaits  of  hair  each  side  of 
her  head  —  you  do  not  see  zem  so  in 
zis  country.  Ze  colour  of  flax.  And  her 
eyes  like  ze  blue  lakes  —  calm  —  calm. 
But  zey  sparkle  for  ze  poor  professor, 
and  some  day  he  vill  go  back.  Not?" 

"Soon,"  said  Polly,  with  conviction. 
"  She  will  be  so  happy " 

"My  Lady,  I  have  ze  deep  love;  she 
vill  not  forget." 

238 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"No,  she  will  not  forget." 

He  bent  low  over  her  hand,  and 
touched  his  lips  to  it. 

"Eet  ees  a  leetle  lady  of  snow,"  he 
said,  sorrowfully:  "but  ze  roses  vill 
come  back  —  eh,  my  Herrick?" 

He  went  down  the  path  slowly,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  we  heard  his 
'cello.  He  was  playing  Handel's  "Lar- 
go" with  his  heart  in  the  long,  drawn 
out  notes. 

"How  do  you  know  she  will  not 
forget?"  I  asked,  Polly  and  I  being 
alone  once  more. 

"I  have  heard  bits  of  her  letters. 
She  loves  him,"  said  Polly,  simply. 

"How  do  you  find  these  things  out 
'leetle  creature'?" 

She  laughed  roguishly. 

"I  am  going  to  quote  Nancy  Stair. 
239 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


'  They  come  —  and  then  Nancy's  head- 
dicks'     ...    do  you  remember?" 

We  both  laughed.  But,  oh,  Nurse, 
were  you  altogether  wise?  For  it  is 
not  a  child's  soul  that  looks  out  of 
Polly's  beautiful  eyes  ...  it  asks 
a  question  .  .  .  and  I  want  to 
answer ! 

Might  it  not  help  her  on  the  long  road 
if  we  went  side  by  side,  and  I  lifted  her 
over  the  rough  places  .  .  .  and  she 
knew  that  my  heart  was  hers  —  for 
keeps? 

For  Polly  and  I  were  meant  for  each 
other. 

She  is  going  to  forward    this  with 
the  others.    Tell  me  what  you  think 
.     .     you  who  have  passed  this  way! 
Your  puzzled, 

MAX  HERRICK. 
240 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


Give  the  Man-from-the-Mallee  my 
respects,  and  good  wishes.  More  power 
to  him,  and  Winsome. 

Please  answer  by  return.  You  have 
arrears  to  make  up,  you  know.  Sample 
lot  will  do,  with  more  to  follow. 

I  have  been  thinking  back.  It  is 
only  a  little  over  six  months  since 
you  were  as  hazy  as  an  undeveloped 
film  on  a  No.  2  Brownie.  And  now 
.  .  .  ? 

You  will  consider  yourself  rung  up. 
Are  you  there  .  .  .  ?  Who  is 
speaking  .  .  .  ? 


241 


XIX 

FROM  THE  DREAM   GIRL 


But  men  are  men;  the  best  sometimes  forget. 
—  Othello,  Act  II.,  Scene  3. 


243 


DEAR  SIX-FOOT-ONE-VERTICAL! 

You  are  almost  as  persistent  as  a 
woman.  Polly  is  right  —  you  are  ex- 
ceedingly greedy.  Let  me  entreat  you 
to  beware  of  cupidity.  Of  course,  long 
before  you  receive  this  you  will  have 
blurted  the  whole  story  out.  You  say 
Polly  and  you  were  meant  for  each 
other  .  .  .  !  But,  what  a  long 
time  it  has  taken  you  to  find  that  out! 
There  was  first  the  Parma  violet  girl  — 
and  then  .  .  . 

And  now  Polly  is  background,  and 
foreground,  and  middle  distance.  And 
the  next? 

I  am  wondering.  Allowing  for  the 
overflow  of  sentiment,  this  looks  like 
245 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


the  real  thing.  Make  sure,  you  dreamer 
of  dreams  —  make  quite  sure  before  you 
tell  her. 

I  am  sorry  for  your  time  of  strain. 
But  perhaps,  if  it  helped  you  to  find 
yourself  —  you  may  be  thankful  for  it 
some  day.  I  wonder  —  ? 

No,  I  didn't  take  diphtheria. 

I  am  afraid  that  you  are  decidedly 
less  respectful  since  I  have  ceased  to  be 
"an  undeveloped  film  on  a  No.  2 
Brownie"!  The  very  idea  .  .  . 
Apologize  at  once ! 

Indignantly  yours, 

THE  DREAM  GIRL. 

I  have  given  Polly  permission  to  tell 
you  about  me.  Are  you  satisfied  now, 
Sir  Arrogance? 


246 


XX 

FROM  MAX  HERRICK 


Tis  not  enough  to  help  the  feeble  up, 
But  to  support  him  after. 

—  Timon  of  Athens,  Act  I.,  Scene  i. 


247 


You  DEAR  GIRL: 

I  have  made  quite  sure.  And  if  you 
dare  to  mention  Parma  violet  girls 
again,  I'll  execute  summary  vengeance. 
She  has  promised  to  be  my  sweetheart, 
for  keeps,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  she  is 
almost  as.  doubtful  as  you  are  as  to  my 
stability.  I  deserve  it,  of  course.  But 
that  wistful  expression  of  hers  cuts  like 
a  knife.  It  isn't  good  to  feel  that  her 
trust  in  me  will  have  a  struggle. 

Of  course  she  cannot  realize  what 
those  awful  days  meant  .  .  .  and 
I  cannot  tell  her.  I  want  to  shut  off 
the  memory  .  .  .  but  ...  if 
I  ever  fail  her! 

Something  is  troubling  her  —  I  am 
249 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


sure  of  that.  Of  course  I  may  be  out 
of  it,  as  usual,  and  it  may  be  only 
weakness  that  makes  her  droop  at 
times  —  calls  the  shadow  into 
her  beautiful  eyes.  ...  I  wish  I 
knew. 

It  is  good  to  know  that  I  have  won 
her  .  .  .  but,  oh,  Dream  Girl 
.  .  .  can  you  tell  me  how  to  bring 
back  the  old  Polly?  If  you  can  .  .  . 
you  have  done  so  much,  that  this  seems 
possible  .  .  .  send  along  the  pre- 
scription by  return  of  post.  It  shall  be 
carried  out  to  the  letter. 

I  am  .  .  .  sure  she  cares,  you 
know  .  .  .  though  she  has  said 
so  little.  Just  one  startled  look 
.  .  .  but  I  understood. 

I  didn't  say  much  either.  If  my  life 
doesn't  tell  her  .  .  .  but  it  shall. 
250 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


She  would  distrust  protestations,  this 
Polly  of  mine. 

Do  you  know,  I  can't  settle  to  writing. 
Strange,  isn't  it?  I  want  the  Polly  who 
used  to  snub  me  and  scold  me  —  the 
Polly  who  has  seized  my  heart  relent- 
lessly, and  holds  it  by  right  of  posses- 
sion. 

And  ...  in  spite  of  her  eyes 
.  .  .  her  promise  .  .  .  there  is 
something  between  us. 

So  you  see,  we  need  you,  Girl, 
to  sweep  away  some  cobwebs. 
I  think  you  could  convince  her 
that  this  love  is  abiding  —  for  all 
time. 

And  some  day  soon  —  she  will  come 
in  laughing  softly,  and  you  will  be  with 
her.    And  she  will  say  in  that  whim- 
sical fashion  of  hers     .     .     . 
251 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"This  ...  is  the  Dream  Girl, 
Max!" 

Till  then, 

Your  impatient, 

MAX  HERRICK. 

Herr  Lindt  has  taken  passage  by  the 
Bremen.  He  has  come  in  for  a  fine 
little  property  in  Germany  ...  an 
eccentric  friend  of  the  family  has 
gone  aloft!  He  was  over  last  night, 
saying  good-bye,  and  his  face  was  a 
picture. 

"I  shall  hear  her  seeng  soon,"  he 
kept  saying,  over  and  over  again. 
"Ach!  but  you  do  not  hear  such  music 
in  zis  country.  You  vill  breeng  ze 
leetle  creature  to  Germany  some  day, 
my  Herrick  .  .  .  ees  eet  not  so? " 

And  I  promised,  of  course.    Polly's 
eyes  seemed  to  hold  the  wish. 
252 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


When  he  went,  his  face  was  flushed 
with  genuine  emotion  at  leaving  us. 

To-day  he  sails,  and  we  shall  miss 
him,  and  the  'cello. 

This  isn't  the  sort  of  letter  you  ex- 
pected me  to  write,  is  it?  But  Polly's 
face  comes  between  me  and  the  page 
so  often.  And  I  wonder  .  .  . 

M.H. 


253 


XXI 

FROM  POLLY   CARROL 


Love,  that  hath  us  in  his  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget? 

—  TENNYSON. 

But  nature  never  framed  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice. 

—  Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 


255 


MAX    .     .    .    MY  DEAR: 

Yesterday  we  dreamed  dreams  and 
saw  visions.  And  to-day  I  am  wonder- 
ing how  I  shall  tell  you.  How  you  will 
take  it.  But  oh  .  .  .  don't  forget 
that  Polly  loves  you  .  .  .  and  for- 
give her  if  you  can. 

Max,  there  is  no  Dream  Girl  — 
there  never  has  been.  All  the  letters 
that  have  meant  so  much  to  you  have 
been  written  in  this  room  by  the  little 
"everyday  girl"  —  Polly. 

It  is  rather  an  impossible  situation, 
isn't  it?  And  you  will  want  to  take  a 
good,  long  breath  before  you  go  on. 

Sometimes  I  wondered  that  you  did 
not  see  through  the  whole,  pitiful  sham 
257 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


I  got  frightened  halfway, 
and  wanted  to  turn  back,  more  than 
once.  But,  by  that  time,  the  thing 
that  was  entered  into  to  while  away 
a  few,  weary  hours,  had  grown  into 
something  more  .  .  .  something 
that  seemed  necessary  to  you.  That 
is  my  excuse. 

You  will  of  course  be  angry  —  just 
at  first.  That  is  why  I  am  writing, 
instead  of  telling  you.  You  may  even 
find  it  hard  to  forgive  ...  I  shall 
not  blame  you.  But  the  dread  of 
having  to  write  this  letter  has  pressed 
heavily  lately.  More  heavily  since  I 
knew  that  you  cared. 

For  I  realize  what  she  has  grown  to 

be  to  you    .    .    .    this  girl  who  never 

existed.    Max    ...    it   is   a   little 

hard  on  me,  too!    When  you  have  read 

258 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


this,  you  will  answer  your  Dream  Girl 
for  the  last  time  —  and  she  will  know. 

For  there  has  been  some  truth  hi 
her  after  all.  Perhaps  she  has  just 
been  showing  you  another  side  of  her- 
self —  Polly,  I  mean.  And  you  liked 
that  side,  Max.  I  can't  forget  that. 
You  must  judge  which  is  the  real 
Polly  .  .  .  the  one  you  were  meet- 
ing and  crossing  swords  with  .  .  . 
or  the  one  who  wrote  to  you. 

And  whichever  one  you  decide  on 
will  be  wrong  ...  for  she  is  both! 

And  now  —  what  do  you  think  of  her? 

I  have  been  reading  your  letters  over 
again.  ...  I  almost  know  them 
by  heart.  They  thrill  me,  and  they 
hurt  —  at  one  and  the  same  time.  But 
I  got  to  know  the  real  Max  through 
them  .  .  .  the  Max  I  hoped  was 
259 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


there.  I  wonder  whether,  through  hers, 
you  got  to  know  the  real  Polly? 

Oh,  yes,  I  have  cared  .  .  .  ever 
since  the  day  they  brought  you  here, 
and  I  thought  you  had  come  back  to 
die,  or  were  facing  invalidism.  And 
at  first,  you  did  not  want  to  live. 

My  one  thought  was  to  rouse  the  Max 
Herrick  who  was  dormant.  You  had 
been  looking  on  at  life  .  .  .  and  it 
hurt.  For  I  am  sure  I  always  saw 
what  you  were  capable  of  being. 

Think    .     .     .    dear.     .     .     . 

And  one  night  —  you  had  been  utterly 
listless  and  apathetic  —  the  idea  came 
that  I  carried  out  so  successfully. 
I  wanted  to  give  you  an  interest  right 
away  from  this  place  —  take  you  into 
another  world. 

I  could  not  show  you  in  real  life  the 
260 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


side  I  revealed  in  my  letters  .  .  . 
it  would  have  been  dangerous.  For 
I  knew  then,  that  the  last  thought  in 
your  mind  was  love  for  me.  You  - 
all  but  told  me  so,  you  know.  I  was 
good  for  making  jolly  fires,  and  singing 
to  you.  And  I  was  your  chum. 

But  it  has  helped  you,  Max?  Roused 
you  to  a  more  vital  hold  on  life.  .  .  . 
If  you  are  tempted  to  be  angry,  you  will 
remember  that,  won't  you? 

It  ...  wasn't  altogether  easy 
for  me,  you  know,  as  we  got  on.  To 
know  you  were  writing  to  your  Dream 
Girl  as  if  she  were  the  stranger  she 
seemed  to  be,  and  to  read  some  of  the 
things  you  said  about  me.  Do  you 
remember?  I  have  been  going  through 
the  letters  to-night  with  an  odd  pain  at 
my  heart. 

261 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


"I  am  not  in  the  least  in  love  with 
Polly  .  .  .  not  in  the  very  least." 

And  I  was  to  read  that    .     .     . 

Sometimes  I  felt  tempted  to  let  the 
whole  thing  slip  —  it  hurt  too  cruelly. 
But  I  could  not. 

It  became  a  sharp  pain  in  more  senses 
than  one,  too.  For  it  was  all  true 
.  .  .  only  it  had  happened  years 
before  I  knew  there  was  such  a  man 
in  the  world  as  Max  Herrick. 

And  on  those  close,  stuffy  nights 
when  you  scolded  me  for  writing  so 
late,  I  dreamed  myself  back  into  the 
happy  days  when  Grannie  and  I  —  my 
parents  died  when  I  was  almost  a  baby 
—  lived  our  lives  by  Stony  Creek. 

Often,  I  have  taken  my  hands  from 
the  keys,  my  heart  aching  with  a 
physical  pain  as  I  thought  of  the 
262 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


mountains,  and  the   garden    that  was 
literally  Fairyland. 

Yes.  .  .  .  It  was  all  real  .  .  . 
even  the  Man-from-the-Mallee  —  and 
Winsome  .  .  .  and  the  diphtheria. 


knowlne  kevxkepL  lunxainp^up  alme 

When  you  wrote  that  time,  begging  me 
to  be  careful,  it  seemed  so  strange. 
And  the  letter  in  which  I  said  I  was 
263 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


too  tired  to  write  more  —  oh,  Max,  it 
was  so  pitifully  true.  I  was  sickening 
for  that  fever,  and  you  were  so  per- 
sistent. I  was  a  bit  light-headed,  that 
night,  I  think.  I  know  the  keys  kept 
jumping  up  at  me,  and  I  had  to  rest 
between  each  word. 

I  don't  know  how  I  did  it  ... 
and  met  you,  every  day.  I  manifolded 
my  letters,  or  I  should  have  been  in  a 
difficulty  many  a  time.  As  it  was,  my 
tenses  got  jumbled  up,  and  I  was  afraid 
you  would  guess.  I  wanted  so  badly, 
to  tell  you  that  Winsome  married 
the  Man-from-the-Mallee,  and  went 
to  England  with  him,  and  then 
I  remembered  that  I  had  not  left 
time. 

I  have  gone  through  the  letters  you 
wrote  when  I  was  ill.  They  say  —  a 
264 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


lot  —  to  me.    They  seem    .     .    .    real. 
And  now  I  have  hurt  you. 

Dear  ...  I  love  you  with  my 
whole  heart  .  .  .  but  we  must 
make  very  sure.  It  would  be  better  for 
Polly,  as  well  as  for  the  Dream  Girl  to 
remain  an  episode,  unless  .  .  . 

One  letter  made  me  very  happy 
—  or  rather,  the  sketch  that  came 
with  it  ...  that  one  of  the 
Dream  Girl  that  was  an  idealized  Polly. 
You  .  .  .  knew  my  face  rather  well, 
didn't  you,  Dana  Gibson  the  Second? 

But  oh  —  I  am  puzzled.  Perhaps 
I  have  just  crossed  your  path  .  .  . 
I  ...  Polly  ...  not  the 
Dream  Girl! 

Even  if  I  only  teased  you,  and  fought 
you,  and    .     .     .    roused  you  —  Dear! 
that  was  something? 
265 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


It  is  only  Polly,  Sir  Egotist  —  a  little 
saddened  with  the  battle  of  life,  and 
more  than  a  little  tired.  And  though 
we  have  got  to  know  each  other  rarely 
well  ...  if  I  were  to  slip  out  of 
your  life.  .  .  .  No,  that  isn't  quite 
fair;  is  it?  I  did  not  mean  to  wound. 

But  oh,  Max  .  .  .  wait  .  .  . 
I  should  still  be  the  Polly  who  has 
irritated  you  so  often  —  and  perhaps 
some  one  with  a  more  clinging  na- 
ture. .  .  . 

You  must  decide  —  for  both  of  us. 

If  you  are  too  angry  to  forgive  me, 
I  am  still  going  to  keep  your  letters. 
They  belong  to  the  Dream  Girl,  and  she 
will  take  them  away  with  her  into  the 
clouds  .  .  .  and  the  purple  dis- 
tances. And  sometimes  you  will  re- 
member, and  wish  the  mists  were  not 
266 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


quite  so  thick  —  and  that  you  could  see 
her  once  again  with  the  "look  of  ex- 
quisite compassion  in  her  eyes!" 

You  were  right  ...  I  was  jeal- 
ous of  her.  Absurd,  wasn't  it?  But 
you  will  understand  why. 

I  am  not  begging  mercy  at  your 
hands,  Six-foot-one- Vertical  ...  I 
do  not  feel  in  the  least  meek,  or  subdued. 
It  is  I  ...  Polly  ...  and  if 
you  do  not  want  me  .  .  . 

I  shall  wave  my  hand  at  you  and 
vanish.  The  Chalet  still  belongs  to  me., 
only,  when  Grannie  died  there  was  a 
mortgage  on  it,  and  it  suited  me  better 
to  put  a  tenant  in,  and  typewrite  here. 
That  was  why  I  was  working  so  hard  - 
though  the  writing  at  night  was  usually 
...  the  letter.  It  has  its  comical 
side. 

267 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


I  cleared  the  mortgage  at  Christmas 
—  and  I  can  go  back  now.  I  shall, 
if  ... 

And  you  may  forget  both  Polly,  and 
that  shadowy  creature  who  signs  herself 
for  the  last  time, 

Your 

DREAM  GIRL. 

Write  your  answer,  Max,  and  slip  it 
under  my  door  to-night. 


268 


Doubt  that  the  stars  are  fire; 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move; 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar; 

But  never  doubt  I  love! 

—  Hamlet. 

.     .     .    Now  thy  image  doth  appear 
In  the  rare  semblance  that  I  loved  it  first. 
—  Twelfth  Night,  Act  V.,  Scene  i. 


269 


SWEETHEART: 

I  wrote  something  to  the  Dream  Girl 
once  that  you  may  remember.  It  was 
when  I  thought  I  was  going  to  lose  you 
-  and  I  wanted  you  in  my  arms.  And, 
because  I  want  that  more  than  anything 
in  this  life,  I  can't  write,  Polly. 

Dream  Girl  .  .  .  little  everyday 
girl  .  .  .  Polly  .  .  .  you,  out 
of  the  whole  world  .  .  .  did  ever 
any  unworthy  man  have  so  much  given 
him,  I  wonder? 

Little  love,  you  can't  go  now.  I  shall 
never  let  you  go  again.  I  can't  quite 
take  it  in  yet  .  .  .  have  we  gone 
back  to  Fairyland,  you  and  I?  And 
I  nearly  lost  you  ...  so  very 
271 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


nearly.  And  it  is  life  we  are  facing 
not  a  dream  world  .  .  . 
though  we  shall  still  see  visions. 

But  it  is  beautifully  real,  dear  heart. 
And  you  won't  despise  me  because  my 
first  feeling  was  one  of  sadness.  For 
I  think  of  the  weary  look  that  was 
coming  to  live  in  your  eyes  .  .  . 
and  I  see  you  —  those  stifling  nights 
typing  away  for  dear  life  to  please  a  sick 
idiot's  whim.  How  did  you  manage 
it  all,  Sweet? 

It  must  be  that  I  shall  be  a  better  man 
for  this.  ...  Do  you  remember 
my  telling  you  that  between  you  both 
it  might  be  that  I  should  develop  into 
something  distantly  resembling  a  man? 
Do  you,  Polly  darling? 

I  am  planning  .  .  .  the  Chalet, 
and  the  inglenook,  and  the  garden 
272 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


and  the  myrtle  in  the  bed  of  the  creek, 
and  ...  MY  WIFE! 

We  two  .  .  .  and  the  world  in 
the  distance.  And  a  book  to  be  written 
in  collaboration  that  shall  mean  some- 
thing. You  can  never  again  taunt  me 
with  imagination,  you  know. 

Soon  .  .  .  Polly  .  .  .  you 
won't  keep  me  waiting  long?  I  want  to 
hold  away  from  you  everything  but 
happiness  .  .  . 

More  power  to  the  Man-from-the- 
Mallee,  and  Winsome.  All  the  same, 
I  owe  him  a  grudge  over  that  diphtheria 
business.  If  you  had  taken  it,  and  I 
had  never  met  you!  It  doesn't  bear 
thinking  of. 

I  shall  write  to  the  Woman-in- White 
for  congratulations.  She  had  a  great 
deal  to  do  with  your  recovery,  but  I 
273 


THE  DREAM  GIRL 


think  my  voice  must  have  reached  you, 
and  called  you  back.  For  my  heart 
was  in  it  —  small  love  of  mine. 

And  you  are  not 
begging  mercy  at 
my  hands?  That 
was  a  flash  of  the 
old  Polly.  Head 
u  p ,  eyes  shining 
.  .  .  mouth  mu- 
tinous .  .  .  my 

girl! 

And  you'll  come 
to  me  when  you've  read  this    .    .     . 
and  I'll  tell  you    all   I    can't    write 
.    .    .    with  my  arms  around  you. 
Your  lover, 

MAX. 


274 


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